Page 56 of Reaper Said Mine

“I am pleased with the room.”

“The room has too many bite-eels.”

“The room has exactly enough bite-eels.”

“One of Theryki’s aides saw a basin move and nearly fainted against a support pillar.”

“Then he has learned caution before dinner. Rikka educates quickly.”

Skahar’s scarred mouth curves. “You are in fine form tonight.”

“I am hosting enemies. It brings out my charm.”

“Your charm has legal consequences.”

“Only in three jurisdictions.”

Before he can answer, the first horn sounds from the entrance arch. It is not a polished diplomatic tone but a deep, ragged blast from a carved hull-bone longer than a human body. Reaper musicians line the central aisle, each wearing ash markings across face and chest. The drums begin beneath the horn, slow at first, then building in a rhythm meant to recall boots on boarding decks and hearts under armor. Guests near the entrance stiffen as the sound hits them. Several humans turn pale. A Coalition clerk drops a stylus and bends too quickly to retrieve it, nearly striking his forehead against the table edge.

Skahar murmurs, “That one will not survive the marrow course.”

“Have faith.”

“In the clerk?”

“In Rikka’s mercy.”

“I have known Rikka for thirty years. Mercy is not among her better-seasoned dishes.”

The guests enter according to the seating order I approved. Coalition representatives first, with Theryki moving among them like a jewel with teeth. She wears deep green tonight, the cut modest, expensive, and perfectly calculated to survive blood splatter while still looking as though blood ought to apologize for touching it. She pauses at the threshold and places two fingers against her throat in the Reaper guest acknowledgment, not perfect but precise enough to make several warriors mutter approval.

She did her research.

Of course she did.

General Gobold enters with the Alliance delegation, shoulders squared, old scales polished, uniform decorations gleaming under firelight. He looks at the room, the basins, the blades, and the musicians, then gives a short laugh through his nose as if daring the entire hall to offend him. Wilcox walks beside him in dark formal wear, her face calm, her eyes moving everywhere. She spots three exits, two potential brawls, four concealed weapons, and probably my mood before she reaches her seat.

Then come the media representatives, minor trade envoys, aides, attachés, translators, merchant captains, and all the parasites of history who arrive wherever decisions might feed them.

I do not search for Ursa Ramone.

That would be foolish.

I am not foolish in public.

I stand at the high table and let them come to me.

The Reapers enter last, as custom demands when guests are present. My captains fill the hall in rows of black, gray, and bone-white bodies, their formal armor etched, patched, scarred, and stolen from a hundred victories. They carry no full rifles, but every one of them carries blades. Some wear trophies. Some wear names of dead kin braided through hair or carved into armor plates. The younger warriors try to look terrifying, which makes them look young. The older ones do not try at all, which is why diplomats avoid meeting their eyes.

When the last drumbeat falls, the hall holds still.

I step forward.

“My guests,” I say, letting my voice carry without amplification. “You stand in Guyver Station’s Blood Hall under banners that remember both loss and victory. You have brought proposals, warnings, flattery, threats, gifts, and the usual polite lies powerful beings carry when they visit a place they do not control.”

A ripple of Reaper laughter moves along the tables. Gobold grunts as if he disapproves and enjoys himself against his will. Theryki’s smile remains perfect. Wilcox closes her eyes briefly, perhaps praying for patience.

I continue, “Tonight, we eat before we lie again tomorrow. We honor the old hunger that kept our people alive when the galaxy preferred us starved. We honor the kill that fed the crew, the crew that held the ship, the ship that carried the children, and the children who grew claws enough to take what was denied them. If you are afraid, good. Fear keeps fools from wasting food. If you are disgusted, swallow quietly. If you are brave, do not announce it. We will notice.”