Her.
I walk to her, the holo battlefield dissolving behind us, the false massacre fading into static afterimages.
She meets my gaze.
No fear.
No apology.
Just clarity.
I exhale.
The ship hums around us, systems stabilizing after the boarding threat dissipates.
External comms light up — channels flooding with whispers, warnings, tags, and frantic mentions of her name.
She doesn’t flinch.
Not even a blink.
I stand there — boots planted, arms slightly unsteady, chest tight with the realization that:
She didn’t just bluff her way out of danger.
She rewrote everyone’s expectations.
Saved the ship.
And spun a legend wider and deeper than anything I might’ve forged in a lifetime of violence.
I square my shoulders and swallow hard.
“Don’t ever do that again without warning me,” I say — flat. Controlled. Like I’m scolding a child I’m dangerously impressed by.
She smirks — just barely — and it’s the first time in days she doesn’t look like she’s bracing for violence or retreat.
“Noted,” she says.
I turn back to the viewport.
Stars streak by.
Rumors pulse louder on every channel.
And beneath all of it, something older and deeper hums through my veins — almost like a heartbeat.
Something I’ve never felt quite this strongly since before Horus IV.
Thejalshagar— pulsing, insistent, not yet understood.
Her truth is out now.
Her name on every lost-signal broadcast.
But more than that.
Something in me shifts.
