Page 156 of Reaper Said Mine

The memory corridor rises in my mind.

Burned hull plating. Names etched by hand. Friends. Crew. Warriors. Children. People who followed me. People who trusted me. People who never came home.

"I know."

Ursa's voice softens.

"How much has it cost your people?"

That question hurts more because it reaches beyond me, beyond my pride and anger, toward the civilians in the refugee districts. The mechanics. The children. Narra and her mess hall. The workers keeping water flowing. The people who never asked to become pieces in somebody else's war.

Too much.

The answer settles heavily inside my chest.

Too much.

Ursa reaches for my hand.

The gesture is simple, human, and warm.

Her fingers slide between mine.

I look down at them.

Then back up at her.

"You built something here," she says quietly.

"Yes."

"You gave people a place to belong."

"Trying to."

"You succeeded."

"Not enough."

"No."

The answer surprises me.

She squeezes my hand.

"But more than you think."

I stare at her.

"You're not responsible for every evil thing powerful people choose."

"No?"

"No."

"I find that difficult to believe."

"I know."