And I’m aware of it.
Because out here, in the void between stars and gunships and whispered legends…
Reputation is a weapon.
And right now, hers is hotter than most live ordnance.
CHAPTER 20
ROXY
The moment we punch through Kaerva’s atmospheric interference, the ship shudders like it’s coughing up rust and regret. The viewports flicker with static, the stars dissolving into jagged lines before the surface breaks open underneath us — a planet stitched with metal and smog, scars and barricades, like someone tried to bury war under the dirt and it just wouldn’t stay dead.
My throat is dry. I can taste grit, not just in the air, but crawling up from my stomach and settling over my tongue like it’s claiming space it shouldn’t have.
“Brace for turbulence,” Vrok says, his voice low and steady through the comm.
I don’t brace. I just lean forward, gripping the arms of my seat, nails digging in, skin slick with a tension that’s been building since the last broadcast — since they started whispering my name like it was something thatmeantsomething.
Kaerva’s gravity claws at us as we descend — a slow, dragging pull that feels like the whole world is trying to snatch the ship out of the sky. Static shrieks through the speakers. Warnings flash in indifferent orange.
But theride— thefall— is something else entirely.
I can feel it in the pit of my belly, the way my body sagging into the straps feels wired wrong. Like my instincts are shouting and my brain is choosing ignorance.
“Keep her steady,” Vrok mutters. “Wind shear’s bad.”
Wind shear. I don’t care what it’s called. It feels like the sky itself is trying to tear us limb from limb.
When we finally break through the interference, we’re rewarded with more turbulence, but at least now I can see the surface:
Kluzderfuvv — a town not much bigger than a speck on a godforsaken world, ringed with defenses cobbled together from shipping containers, salvage plates, and armed eyes that don’t stop watching.
Landing in Kluzderfuvv isn’t quiet.
It’s not supposed to be.
Metal grinds against metal. Fear snaps in the air like a switchblade. The townsfolk are armed, and they line the crude runway with rifles, shotguns, homemade spears with wrapped handles. Their faces aren’t just wary — they’re etched with stories I don’t know yet.
Dust motes dance in the air around us, illuminated by the harsh, flickering lights mounted to the landing platforms. The smell here is different from the asteroid hub — heavier, earthier, like hot dirt and sweat and diesel fumes, all mixed with that unmistakable scent of desperation.
When the ramp drops, the noise hits like a slap: shouts, murmurs, the way footsteps sound when every person in a crowd is trying not to look afraid.
And then I hear it.
My name.
Repeated.
Low at first, like a rumor on the wind, then louder like it’s being shouted into existence.
“The Butcher stands with us!”
“She’s real! She’s come!”
“Save us, Butcher!”
My heart stutters. Just for a second. But long enough that I feel it like a bruise.
