Page 101 of Reaper Said Mine

“You identified one and then started looking at me like I was a tactical objective.”

“You are difficult terrain.”

She presses two fingers against the bridge of her nose and exhales. “That is unfortunately one of the better things anyone has ever said to me.”

“Good. I will have it carved into a wall.”

“Please don’t. Dawson would use it as a headline.”

At the mention of her editor, something unpleasant moves through my chest. Dawson is distant, soft-handed, and very fortunate I have not been given an acceptable reason to meet him in person. Ursa notices the shift, of course. She misses very little except meals and sleep.

“No murdering my boss through vibes,” she says.

“I do not murder through vibes.”

“You absolutely look like you’re trying.”

“If I decide to murder him, you will know.”

“That is not reassuring.”

“It was not intended to be.”

Her smile fades into concentration as another alert blooms above the table. Vakka’s seal flashes across it, followed by the transcript of Theryki’s latest diplomatic message. The ambassador has been busy while we have been buried under legal sewage. She always is. Predators with good manners rarely sleep when prey might sign something before breakfast.

Ursa reads aloud in a dry imitation of Theryki’s smooth voice. “The Coalition remains prepared to recognize Guyver Station’s administrative autonomy provided Lord Gnash demonstrates reciprocal commitment to regional transparency, civilian safeguards, and anti-trafficking partnership standards.”

“She threatens to withhold recognition unless I allow observers.”

“She also offers a moral frame.” Ursa enlarges the final section. “Civilian safeguards. Anti-trafficking. She knows your reputation is vulnerable there because Reapers historically took captives, and she knows you’ve been trying to separate Guyver Station from that legacy. If you reject the clause outright, she can imply you’re resisting protections against slavery.”

“She insults me with the sins of every Reaper who came before.”

“She weaponizes them,” Ursa says. “Insults are emotional. Weapons are useful.”

I turn toward her slowly.

She does not soften the truth. She never does. The chamber light paints harsh lines beneath her cheekbones, and exhaustion shadows the delicate skin beneath her eyes, but her gaze remains steady. She looks small beside the archive table and the armored walls, yet nothing about her feels breakable. She stands in the heart of my secrets, surrounded by evidence that could ruin men with fleets, and tells me exactly where the blade enters.

“You approve of her method?” I ask.

“I understand it.”

“That is not the same.”

“No. It’s more dangerous.”

A sound escapes me, low and reluctant. “You would have made a terrifying ambassador.”

“I would have been fired within a week.”

“You were made for worse rooms than this.”

She looks back at the treaty, but the words have reached her. I smell the warmth that rises in her skin, hear the slight unevenness in her next breath. The bond does not translate thought, but it makes some truths harder to hide. She wants my respect more than she wants my flattery. That knowledge wraps around something raw inside me and squeezes.

The archive door opens before I can say more, and Skahar limps in with no announcement because he considers security clearance a personal insult when it slows him down. His cane taps the deck in a rhythm I recognize from childhood, slow when he wants the room to think him harmless, sharp when he wishes the room to remember it is not. He carries a covered bowl in one hand and a bundle of physical papers under one arm.

Ursa blinks. “Are those actual papers?”