My boots hit the deck plating in heavy, measured steps. Armor fully locked now. Systems green. Weapon safeties engaged. Everything about me screamsready—except the partof my chest that feels like someone reached in and cracked a rib from the inside.
Lazarus walks beside me for half a dozen paces, then peels off without a word. Smart man. He knows this part doesn’t belong to him.
I stop at the edge of the embarkation lane, staring at the shuttle that’s going to take me away from her.
It’s ugly. Utilitarian. All angles and scorched paint. The kind of craft that doesn’t care who it carries as long as they fit and can survive atmospheric shear. The kind of ship that only ever flies one direction: forward.
“Voltar.”
The voice doesn’t belong here.
I turn slowly, already irritated, already prepared to bare my teeth at whatever idiot thought now was a good time.
Instead, I see Tugun.
Stars above and below, he looks… different.
Not smaller. Not weaker. Still a Grolgath, still sharp-featured and tall, lavender skin polished like he’s never met dirt a day in his life. But his suit—his suit is something else entirely.
Muted tones. Clean lines. Tailored, but restrained. No aggressive lapels. No weaponized couture. He looks like someone who’s trying very hard not to draw attention to himself and failing purely because of who he is.
He holds a slim case under one arm. Fabric sample case, if I had to guess.
I stare at him.
He stares back.
The engines roar louder overhead, punctuating the moment like the universe clearing its throat.
“You have a lot of nerve,” I say.
Tugun inclines his head. “I’ve been told.”
“You’re lucky I’m on orders,” I growl. “Otherwise?—”
“You’d kill me,” he finishes calmly. “Yes. We’ve established that.”
I step closer, looming deliberately. I want him to feel it. To understand exactly how thin the line is betweenconversationandviolent obituary.
“If she dies—” I start.
“—I’ll be dead first,” he says.
No hesitation.
No theatrics.
Just fact.
The simplicity of it knocks some of the heat out of my anger. I narrow my eyes, searching his face for bullshit. For posturing. For ego.
I don’t find any.
“You expect me to believe that?” I ask.
He shrugs one elegant shoulder. “Believe whatever you want. I’m not doing this for you.”
“Good,” I snap. “Because I didn’t ask?—”
