The sharpness in me doubles. I look away. The girl disappears into the dark of the dome without a word.
I am left alone. With the raw ache in my chest. My ribcage still cracked. My mind splitting with images.
I pick up another stone, stand, and walk toward the vines. I set the stone at the base of a vine trunk. My fingers trace the carved letters once more. The ground is cool beneath my boots. The night wind whispers.
“The stars,” I murmur to them. “Send her back.”
Silence.
I run a hand through my hair. The thrill of fight still tugs inside me. The scream inside me still hunts. But here, I’m silent. Here, I bend and toil. I harvest sunrise-grain. I feed animals. I sweep dust from paths. I do chores that have no glory.
And it frustrates me because Ishouldbe doing war. Ishouldbe taking her back. Ishouldbe roaring. But right now, I’m planting roots in soft earth. The soil holds my blood and doesn’t ask why.
I pump water. I lift grain sacks. I blaze through every glare, every sigh, every soft voice. I don’t say much. I don’t fight. But my body aches, and that’s the battle.
One afternoon I find Tayani again near the harvested field. She’s cutting grain by herself, her sickle slicing slowly in the golden light.
I lean against a post. She studies me. “You’re bleeding.”
My fingers are red-stained from the edge of a stalk. “From a field.”
“Pain is honesty,” she says again.
I nod.
She straightens. “It will serve you.”
I breathe out through my nose. I stare at the horizon where the twin suns hang pale. I taste dust and heat and… something like hope.
We don’t speak often after that. The nights lengthen. I keep the fire going. I keep carving stones. I keep climbing the fence line and pressing my face to the sky. Waiting. Watching. Listening for the faint hum of a ship or the ghost of her boots on a corridor.
My nightmares come back. The collapse. The lights. Her scream. I wake with sweat and rage. But now I don’t fight them. I ride them until they fade.
One night I wake and I swear the stars are falling, auroras in the sky bending downward. I feel a thrum in the distance. The ship’s hum? I shut my eyes. I hope.
I am no longer sure if this place is healing me or holding me captive. But I know I cannot stay forever.
Because I lost her.
And I won’t lose myself.
CHAPTER 24
LIORA
Three years pass. Pepper is a whirlwind of energy and questions that hit like laser fire. She’s up at dawn and asleep at midnight, and somehow still manages to make me feel like I’ve slept through a monsoon every single day. The image inducer clings to her temple like a lifeline, its soft hum always in the background like a warning I can’t afford to ignore. It masks her Reaper features well enough most days. But sometimes—when she’s mad or overexcited—it glitches. Her voice doubles, like two versions of her echoing out of sync. Her eyes flash silver when she’s scared, furious, or justdonewith being cooped up. And I know it’s only a matter of time before someone sees what they shouldn’t.
“Mommy, why can’t I go to school like the other kids?” she asks one morning, hanging upside down from the back of the couch like a tiny human bat. She grins at me, jelly on her cheek and wild curls everywhere.
I freeze with the kettle in my hand. “Because we’re… special,” I say finally, which is only half a lie. “And special kids need special lessons.”
She gives me a look like she knows I’m full of it. She’s smart. Too smart. Already reading at eighth-grade level. Already askingabout where babies come from and why everyone stares when we walk down the street. I keep telling myself I’ll figure it out when the time comes. But time’s never been kind to me.
Some nights, I lie awake recalibrating her inducer settings, praying the damn thing doesn’t short out on a crowded train or during a random ID scan. Other nights, I lie in bed with her curled up at my side, one hand on her back, listening to her breathe just to remind myself she’s real. That I didn’t imagine her. That she’s mine. Ours.
But being “special” is expensive. I blew through the holo-film residuals in under a year. Between the fake IDs, the updated power cores for the image inducer, the relocation costs, and doctor visits for a kid who couldn’t go to a normal clinic, I’m drowning. Freelance journalism doesn’t stretch the way it used to. The last gig almost outed us both when my source sold my burner number to a bounty board. If I hadn’t bolted when I did…
Now I’m on my last credit. I skipped dinner last night so Pepper could have seconds. Again. There’s a clinic up the road that’ll pay 400 credits for clean plasma, no questions asked. I’m two seconds from going. From giving blood I can’t afford to lose.
