Every victory tastes like ash.
Every raid leaves me emptier.
But I keep going.
Because movement means life.
And life means the chance—however small—that somewhere, out there, she’s watching the same stars.
Late that night, I whisper her name again.
Not loud.
Just enough for the ship to hear.
“Isolde.”
It echoes down the corridors, soft as breath, raw as prayer.
And in the heartbeat of silence after, I swear I hear the Hulk answer back—metal shifting like a sigh.
A ghost agreeing.
A promise not yet broken.
CHAPTER 17
ISOLDE
The lights always find me, even when I don't want them to.
Cameras blink like insects—unblinking, ravenous—tracking me the second the grav-car eases to a stop at the entrance of the Novarian Heritage Dome. I take a breath I don’t feel, open the door, and step into a storm of flashes with my son at my side.
“Hold tight,” I whisper, bending low enough for him to hear through the chaos. “Two squeezes if you want out, okay?”
Pyramus nods solemnly, his golden eyes darting between the sea of onlookers and my face. His grip on my hand tightens—little claws just poking past the edge of his silk gloves. He’s dressed in dark blue formalwear with a capelet he insisted on this morning. "Like a space knight," he'd said, striking a pose that nearly made me laugh through my coffee.
But right now, there’s no room for laughter. Only staging.
A tide of voices builds.
“There she is—Isolde Verrix!”
“Single mother, fashion entrepreneur, cultural icon?—!”
“And that must be the boy—look at those eyes!”
I let my gaze pass over the crowd. Not too fast, not too long. Smile with warmth. Chin tilted just right for the light. I’vedone this before—hell, I was raised for it. But this time, I’m not just shielding myself from the flashstorms and vultures. I’m shieldinghim.
“Smile if you want, baby,” I whisper. “But only if you feel it.”
He doesn’t smile. But he stands straighter, and that’s enough.
We step onto the welcome mat. The holo-backdrop shimmers behind us with swirling Novarian art. The emblem of my late father’s lineage pulses near the top in polished silver.
A woman in coral chiffon approaches with a mic.
“Isolde,” she greets, all charm and TV teeth. “The galaxy’s been waiting for your return. How does it feel to be back in the public eye?”
