Page 201 of Reaper Said Mine

“My counsel has always been ambitious. You simply prefer it when I insult other people.”

The red glow of the map reflects off his broken horn and the deep scars along his jaw. He looks ancient and indestructible, which means he looks exactly like the sort of creature young warriors expect to have answers. I know better. Skahar has never had answers. He has warnings, scars, and the patience to let fools discover fire by placing both hands in it.

“I did not invite the Combine to my borders,” I say.

“No. You invited one of their dead men into our story.”

The words strike cleanly.

For a moment, I say nothing. In the command center, reports keep moving. Officers keep speaking. The station continues its endless work of staying alive.

I look at the casualty list again.

Revenge used to have a shape I understood. The Helios Combine took my parents, my home-ship, my refugee colony, my childhood, and the bones of everyone who taught me I belonged anywhere. Hating them gave my life a direction when hunger and grief would have made an animal of me. Every raid, every seized convoy, every terrified Combine executive kneeling in my shadow felt like a debt collecting itself through my hands.

Now I read the names of dead children from Brindlehook and feel the old hunger turn to ash in my mouth.

The Combine still deserves blood.

That truth has not changed.

What has changed is the cost of making them pay.

“Lord Gnash,” Krell says, more carefully this time. “We have another issue.”

Skahar turns toward him. “If you say there is more bad news, I will begin charging admission.”

Krell’s mouth twitches despite himself. “Neutral merchant houses are suspending routes through the interior lanes. Three have already rerouted through Alliance-monitored space. One requests formal assurance that Coalition stabilization forces will guarantee passage before they resume service.”

Vakka curses so vividly that one of the younger technicians looks impressed.

I lean over the map and expand the trade routes. Blue neutral lanes fade one by one. Yellow warnings bloom over tariffs, fuel availability, food imports, medical stockpiles, agricultural shipments, coolant, reactor parts, infant nutrient packs, and a hundred other mundane necessities people forget until they vanish.

War is glorious only to those far from inventory ledgers.

“How long before shortages?” I ask.

Krell checks his compad. “For Reaper crews, two weeks with ration discipline. For refugee sectors, ten days. Medical nanites become critical in six if casualties continue at this rate.”

“Coalition supply offer?”

He hesitates.

I look at him.

“Read it.”

“They offer emergency humanitarian corridors, escorted by Coalition vessels, with distribution oversight through a joint relief authority.”

Skahar’s cane stops moving.

The command center seems to narrow around the words.

Joint relief authority. Another helpful hand. Another thread around my wrist. Food for children, medicine for wounded, fuel for ships, all offered in exchange for a chair at the table where decisions become habits and habits become control.

My people need what they offer.

My pride hates that sentence.