Page 107 of Reaper Said Mine

The sound startles me, then warms me, then steadies something I had not known was shaking. In this freezing archive, surrounded by hostile treaties, threats wearing perfume, and the machinery of coming war, she laughs because our trap has sprung exactly where she said it would.

“Tell Vakka,” Ursa says, wiping one eye, “that the correct answer is yes.”

I send the message.

Vakka’s reply arrives almost immediately.

I KNEW I LIKED HER.

Ursa leans against the table, still smiling, and I realize with a force that steals my breath that the bond has grown stronger through argument, danger, and work rather than softness alone. Not because she flatters me. Not because she soothes me. Because she stands beside me in the cold and helps me choose the blade that cuts cleanest.

For years, I believed strength meant needing no one.

Now this human woman has walked into my war room with caf-stained fingers, merciless eyes, and a mouth that calls me on every piece of my own nonsense, and she has made solitude feel like the weakest strategy I ever mistook for survival.

The next chime comes from Theryki herself.

I do not answer it yet.

Instead, I look at Ursa. “Walk with me.”

She glances at the waiting message, then back at me. “Now?”

“Yes.”

“Theryki is going to hate that.”

“Yes.”

“Skahar is going to approve.”

“Unfortunately.”

“And the treaty drafts?”

“Will still be ugly when we return.”

She studies me, then reaches for her jacket. “Fine. But if this walk involves more security disputes over my food intake, I’m staging a rebellion.”

“I would crush it.”

“You would try.”

“I would provide better provisions first.”

“Smart. Undercut the revolutionary platform.”

I open the archive door, and warmer corridor air spills over us, carrying the distant smells of market spice, engine smoke, and living bodies packed inside a station that everyone at that table wants to use. Ursa steps through beside me, close enough that our shoulders nearly touch.

Behind us, Theryki’s unanswered message pulses in the dark.

Ahead of us, Guyver Station hums like a dangerous heart.

I do not feel trapped between old grief and coming war. I feel the shape of another possibility walking at my side, small, stubborn, brilliant, and armed with a spoon, a compad, and the terrible gift of telling me the truth.

CHAPTER 15

URSA