Page 243 of Reaper Said Mine

The thought should comfort me.

Instead it adds another weight to the growing pile inside my chest.

“Lord Gnash,” Krell says, voice quieter. “Alliance feeds are reacting to Coalition fleet entry. Their intervention framework is moving from contingency review to active planning.”

“Of course it is,” Skahar says. “One predator sees another predator near meat and remembers its principles.”

Theryki’s channel remains open, and for once she does not object.

I look at the map as Alliance white icons shift closer to the contested systems. The battlefield expands in front of me with obscene elegance. What began as negotiations around one station has spilled across trade routes, colonies, refineries, refugee lanes, and strategic systems with names that will soon be spoken solemnly by people who never cared they existed yesterday.

This is what my table bought.

The thought enters me before I can bar the door against it.

Not the table alone. Not the treaty alone. Not Zune alone. Not Ursa’s evidence, not Theryki’s schemes, not Gobold’s temper, not the Combine’s greed. All of it together. Every decision. Every provocation. Every response. Every time I believed violence was clarity and fear was stability. Every corpse I made into a warning sign. Every warning sign that taught my enemies exactly how to aim me.

I used revenge as a map.

Now the galaxy is following it into fire.

“Gnash,” Skahar says.

I blink and realize my hand has closed around the edge of the command table again. Metal curls beneath my claws.

The room watches without watching.

I release the table.

“Status on Guyver shelters.”

Krell answers too quickly, grateful for the practical question. “Civilian inward evacuation continues. Outer-hold dependents arriving in waves. Shelter capacity at eighty-three percent. Hydroponics can support rationing for twelve days without external supply, longer if Coalition humanitarian deliveries continue.”

“If they continue,” Skahar says.

Vakka’s console chirps. “They will continue as long as they enjoy having half a dozen cameras on every crate.”

I glance at her.

She shrugs. “Ursa’s feeds are everywhere now. Coalition relief officers keep smiling as if their teeth are being inspected.”

A rough breath that nearly resembles amusement leaves me. “Good.”

Krell looks up. “Her third packet is spreading through Alliance civilian channels. Public support for immediate intervention is still high, but opposition is growing. Some Earth politicians are asking why Alliance planning accelerated after the protectorate announcement rather than after the first civilian casualties.”

Skahar’s mouth curves. “A dangerous woman. I approve.”

“She is furious with me.”

“Fury does not spoil danger. It seasons it.”

Vakka mutters, “If she wants to yell at someone, she can yell at me after she finishes making admirals look like lying children.”

The bond tightens inside me at the sound of Ursa’s name. It has been hours since her last message. I know she is working. I know distance does not mean abandonment. I know all sensible things. Sensible things are thin blankets in cold rooms.

I almost send another message.

Then Dakkor updates again.