I walk beside Kael through the primary corridor, and every eye follows us.
Warriors line the walls at intervals, armor partially disengaged but weapons never far from reach. Their silver spurs catch the light in sharp glints as they shift weight or turn their heads. Their gaze doesn’t linger on Kael.
It lingers on me.
“That’s not subtle,” I murmur under my breath.
“They are not subtle people,” Kael replies quietly.
“You’re being generous.”
A pair of younger Reapers pass us carrying crates stamped with mineral extraction seals. One of them slows just enough to stare openly.
“That’s her?” he mutters to his companion.
“The human,” the other replies.
I keep my spine straight.
We emerge into a wider chamber that surprises me enough that I stop walking.
It’s not a military hangar.
It’s a market.
Not polished. Not decorative. But undeniably civilian. Stalls carved directly into asteroid stone display forged tools, processed mineral ingots, bundles of woven fiber, and racks of clothing stitched from durable industrial fabrics. Children—actual children—dart between the adults, smaller frames moving with reckless energy while older warriors bark warnings that are more reflex than anger.
I stare.
“You expected chains?” Kael asks quietly.
“I expected…” I trail off, scanning the chamber. A female Reaper adjusts a brace on a youngling’s forearm, checking the alignment of developing spurs with clinical care. Two older figures argue over price in low, irritated tones. A vendor slams a piece of forged metal down on a table, testing its weight with visible pride.
“I expected less infrastructure,” I admit.
“This is a primary settlement,” Kael says.
“And the outer systems?”
“Less stable.”
A group of civilians part slightly as we pass, creating space without being asked. The gesture is automatic, not fearful, more hierarchical than panicked.
A tall female warrior steps forward from one of the stalls, her armor stripped down to lighter plating, tools hanging from her belt.
“You bring Alliance eyes into our homes,” she says to Kael.
“I bring witness,” he replies.
“She is Alliance.”
“She is not acting under Alliance authority.”
The woman’s gaze shifts to me, sharp and assessing. “Do you record us for propaganda?”
“I record truth,” I answer evenly.
She snorts softly. “Truth depends on who edits it.”
