Page 320 of Reaper Said Mine

She points at him. “Do not ruin this.”

“I am old. Ruining things is my remaining sport.”

Krell looks at me. “Orders, lord?”

“Feed people,” I say. “Rotate crews off duty. Repair shelters before guns. Send medical supplies to Bravax and Dakkor under Accord protection. Update every refugee family still waiting for transit.”

Vakka nods. “And the captains?”

“Tell them survival outranks swagger for another cycle.”

Skahar grunts. “They will hate that.”

“They may file a complaint after sleeping.”

The command center laughs, tired and rough and real.

Later, I find Ursa in the old observation alcove above the market ring.

The market has not returned to what it was. Too many stalls remain shuttered. Too many banners are scorched. Too many families still sleep in temporary partitions. Yet someone has reopened the tea stand near the central fountain, and a Reaper child with short bone spurs runs past carrying two cups while a human boy chases after him yelling that theft remains illegal under the new treaty. The fountain itself has been refilled, though one side still bears repair patches.

Ursa stands at the rail, watching it all with soft eyes.

She does not look away when I approach.

“I resigned from IHC,” she says.

I stop beside her. “Good.”

She gives me a sidelong look. “That is your whole response?”

“I am restraining myself from suggesting arson.”

“Personal growth looks good on you.”

“It itches.”

She smiles, then looks back at the market. “I sent Dawson the formal notice after the broadcast. I also sent him a very professional statement explaining that I no longer recognize editorial authority from anyone who tried to bury evidence of a manufactured war.”

“Professional?”

“Mostly.”

“How many insults?”

“Implied or explicit?”

“Both.”

She thinks for a moment. “Enough.”

“Good.”

Her smile fades into something quieter. “I’m starting my own network.”

I turn toward her fully.

She lifts her chin, and the old wound of being underestimated seems less like a shadow and more like something behind her. “Independent. Distributed. Source-protected. No corporate board deciding whether truth is convenient. No war packages with casualty music. No turning dead civilians into content for people eating dinner.”