Page 153 of Reaper Said Mine

The sight catches somewhere inside me.

Not because she looks fragile. Ursa rarely looks fragile.

She looks tired.

There is a difference.

It is the kind of tiredness earned by carrying too much responsibility for too long, and it is the kind I recognize.

She senses me before I speak.

"You're lurking."

I walk into the room.

"I am observing."

"That's just lurking with better branding."

I sit beside her.

The couch creaks in protest.

Ursa shifts immediately, turning sideways so she can look at me. The soft lighting catches strands of loose hair near her temple. The medical patch is gone now. Only a faint pink line remains where the assassin's attack clipped her.

"Still angry about that?"

"Yes."

"It was yesterday."

"I remain efficient."

A smile tugs at her mouth. The silence that follows is comfortable. That surprises me. Most silences in my life have required work, filled with strategy, suspicion, and vigilance. This one simply exists.

Outside the viewport, a cargo hauler glides past in a wash of engine light. Ursa watches it for a few seconds.m

Then she says quietly, "You never intended to join the Coalition."

The words aren't a question. I could lie. The realization arrives immediately. I could tell her what everyone else believes—that negotiations matter, that recognition matters, that compromise remains possible.

Instead I find myself staring through the glass at distant stars.

"No."

Her gaze remains on me.

"No?"

"No."

The word leaves my mouth with surprising ease.

"The Coalition thinks these talks are about membership," I continue. "Recognition. Legitimacy."

"They aren't?"

"They are for them."