I pick something simple.
“Nun’s Tooth,” I say.
Renn blinks. “Boss?—”
“It’s a reminder,” I reply. “We bite.”
Nobody argues.
We load supplies fast—boarding gear, jammer countermeasures, explosives for relay sabotage, med packs, restraint cutters, encrypted comm modules keyed only to my channel. The crew moves with grim purpose. The bay smells like fuel, sweat, and gun oil.
Gur is still burning outside. Fyr stays behind, standing on the bay catwalk, arm in a sling, face tight.
He catches my eye.
“You bring her back,” he says, voice rough.
I nod. “Hold the city.”
He bares his teeth. “Always.”
Renn leans close. “Stealth approach?”
“Stealth,” I confirm. “Comms dark unless on my encrypted channel. Jordan’s signal gets priority over everything. If a Nine convoy is in our way, we go around. If Morazin is in our way, we go through.”
Renn’s jaw tightens. “Copy.”
I step onto the bridge.
The bridge smells like new wiring and old ship ghosts—sterile metal with a faint lingering musk of previous crews. The pilot chair is too small for me, so I adjust it with an annoyedgrunt and sit anyway, claws tapping the console like impatient punctuation.
Stars fill the forward viewport, cold and indifferent.
Terranus V sits on the nav display like a warning.
A death-world.
A stage.
A place where people die for spectacle and others clap.
Not tonight.
I key my encrypted channel and speak to the crew, voice steady.
“Launch,” I order.
The cruiser shudders, engines spooling. The bay doors yawn open, and the cold of space rushes in like a slap.
We slide out of Gur’s orbit under minimal signature—no bright flares, no proud broadcasts. Just quiet acceleration, like a knife slipping under a rib.
As we clear atmosphere, the city’s neon fades beneath us, shrinking into a glittering bruise.
I should feel proud.
I feel hungry.
Because in my pocket, Jordan’s beacon is still warm from her ping, and my body remembers her hands on my chest, her voice saying she chooses—deliberate, stubborn, alive.
