I don’t even look up from Reflector’s exposed panel. “He’s not a toy. He’s my assistant. My emotional support sphere.”
Garokk makes a low rumble that could meanridiculous,orI have no idea what those words mean,or possiblyI’m considering yeeting both of you into the nearest airlock.
I grin anyway. “Don’t worry, big guy. You’re doing great at brooding. Really nailing the mysterious-warrior aesthetic.”
“Brooding?” he repeats like the word is an insult.
“Yeah. You know, sitting in the dark corner, muttering ominously while the woman does all the work. Super sexy, by the way.”
That gets me a look. Just a flick of gold eyes, sharp as a blade and twice as dangerous.
My stomach flips anyway. Because, yeah—this alien might be grumpy and half-feral, but he’s also… well. Built.
Focus, Isolde.
I twist another screw into place and test the arm’s joint. The servo motor hums back to life. “There. Good as new.”
Reflector floats upright, little arms flexing experimentally. “I am not new, Isolde.”
“It’s a figure of speech.”
Garokk exhales, long-suffering. “You speak too much.”
“Someone has to,” I shoot back, brushing my hair out of my face. “You ever notice how quiet this ship is? Like it’s holding its breath? I’d go nuts if I didn’t fill the silence.”
He doesn’t answer. Which, to be fair, proves my point.
So I glance over at him. He’s sitting on the floor, leaning against a wall panel that looks like it’s one nudge from collapsing. The dim red light from an emergency fixture glows against his scales, tracing every hard line of him. He’s got his blade across his knees, cleaning it with the kind of focus I usually reserve for editing filters.
It’s the first time I’ve seen him still. Reallystill.
His expression isn’t angry now. It’s… haunted.
And that’s when it hits me.
I’ve seen that look before.
Not on him, obviously—I’d rememberthat—but on people. Soldiers. Veterans. The kind of men they bring onto talk showswith medals and nervous tics, the ones who stare a little too long at nothing and flinch when the lights flash too fast.
He’s one of them.
“Hey,” I say softly, trying not to startle him. “You were in the war, weren’t you?”
He freezes, just slightly. Then goes back to cleaning the blade. “What war?”
“Oh, come on,” I say. “The big one. The Centuries War. Everyone knows about it. Half the holovids out there are about Vakutans. The Scourge of Rynar, the Battle of the Broken Belt…” I trail off. “You’re one of them, aren’t you? A Vakutan.”
His jaw tightens.
Gotcha.
I keep my tone light, teasing. “What, you thought I wouldn’t notice? The scales, the horns, the height? You guys were practically mythologized in the media.”
He doesn’t move. Doesn’t speak.
Okay, maybe not the right approach.
I pivot. “You’re kind of famous, you know. Well, your species is. There were a few Vakutan defectors on the human side, and some of them became folk heroes. But then there were… others.” I study him carefully. “You’re not wearing insignia. No clan markings, no medals. So which were you?”
