Her next message comes almost instantly.
You look different in the feeds.
“That’s diplomatic for ‘traitor,’” I mutter.
Kael looks up from the corridor projection table. “Who?”
“Mara,” I reply. “She’s feeling out whether I’ve sprouted horns.”
“Have you?” he asks.
“Only when irritated.”
He studies me for a moment, then returns to the projection.
I open a secure channel.
“Mara,” I say aloud as her image resolves, “if you’re calling to stage an intervention, this is a poor approach.”
She snorts softly. “Relax. I’m not here to drag you back.”
“Good,” I say.
Her gaze shifts slightly. “You’re building something over there.”
“Yes.”
“Cultural exchange?” she asks.
“Among other things.”
The idea began as necessity—preventing further fracture between Reaper and League systems—but it evolves into something tangible. We establish a limited observer program, small delegations rotating through trade hubs to witnessoperations firsthand rather than relying on rumor. Reaper apprentices attend human engineering seminars via secure feed. Human medical specialists consult with Reaper healers on cross-physiology adaptations.
It is messy.
It is imperfect.
It is real.
“You’re not operating under League authority anymore,” Mara says carefully.
“No,” I reply. “I operate under my own.”
“That’s… new.”
“Yes.”
After the call ends, I stand for a moment in the corridor, listening to the layered sounds of life—shipyard hammers striking rhythmically against hull plating, distant laughter from lower decks, the soft hum of transport lifts moving between levels.
“Do you miss it?” Kael asks from behind me.
“Institutions?” I reply.
“Yes.”
I consider that.
“I miss the illusion of insulation,” I say finally. “The belief that someone else absorbs consequence.”
