Page 225 of Reaper Said Mine

Krell looks up , then quickly looks down again.

Vakka stops speaking for half a breath before resuming her orders.

Skahar’s expression remains hard, but his grip on the cane loosens.

“I killed Zune because he threatened Ursa and because he wore every old wound in a face I could reach,” I say. “He deserved death. That does not mean my hand served my people when I gave it to him.”

The words hurt.

Good.

Some pains deserve to be felt.

Skahar’s voice lowers. “What do you know now?”

“I know enemies can spend my rage more easily than they can spend my restraint.”

His eye narrows slightly.

I look toward the tactical display, where red threat markers continue to pulse around Guyver Station like predators circling a wounded animal. “I know the Combine wants me to lash out. The Alliance wants proof I cannot be contained. The Coalition wants my need to become permission. My captains want blood because blood feels like action. My civilians want to live. Those wants do not weigh the same.”

“No,” Skahar says. “They do not.”

Another impact rocks the station, smaller this time but close enough to send sparks raining from a damaged overhead conduit. No one screams in the command center. We are past screaming. We have entered the place where fear becomes labor.

Krell’s voice breaks in. “Boarding pod contained. Six hostile casualties, two prisoners, no civilian deaths in storage. Our warriors lost one.”

“Name?”

“Drokka of the Bone Wake.”

“Add him to the roll.”

“Yes, lord.”

The roll.

The list that grows faster than honor can justify.

Theryki’s channel opens again. “Lord Gnash, Coalition frigate Dawn Accord reports hostile retreat vectors through the northern debris field. They can pursue if granted expanded authority.”

Vakka looks at me.

Skahar looks at me.

Everyone waits again.

The old answer rises in me first.

Pursue. Kill. Burn the cowards from the dark. Make the Combine pay in the language it taught me.

Then I imagine the frigate chasing ghosts beyond the shield envelope while another attack strikes the market ring. I imagine hostile ships drawing my allies and my fighters away from the people in shelters. I imagine the enemy laughing because revenge remains predictable even when it wears strategy’s coat.

“No pursuit,” I say.

Theryki’s silence carries disbelief.

I continue before she can argue. “Defense posture only. Hold the civilian envelope. If they run, let them carry fear back to whoever sent them.”