Page 21 of Ravaged By the Reaper

HAKTRON

The upper decks are quiet, too quiet for a station still half-bleeding from battle.

No alarms. No screaming. Just the low thrum of stressed engines and the occasional clink of a passing maintenance drone.

It’s the silence before the kill—too taut, too clean.

It grates on me worse than screaming ever could.

I prowl the corridors like a caged beast, boots heavy on plasteel flooring, every turn bringing another viewport to the madness outside.

Coalition ships hang just beyond the station’s reach—silent, predatory, close enough to taste.

Their hulls gleam like polished bone, insignias painted in crimson and ash. Vultures, circling the wounded.

My fingers twitch.

It’d be easy to blast them out of orbit. One volley. One glorious, screaming finale.

But this isn’t my war.

Not today.

This is Amara’s fight now. Her stage. Her strategy.

I lean against the cold steel of a bulkhead and let my forehead rest against the frame of a viewport. The ships drift in silence, and beneath my feet, Gamma breathes through damaged lungs. The station’s AI pings another set of damage reports. I ignore them.

War has rules. And right now, the rule is wait.

I hate waiting.

Always have.

It’s the illusion of control, the pretense that stillness is safer than motion. It’s a lie. But she believes in it. Amara believes in the strength of her voice, in the weight of her ideals. I’ve seen her talk angry bureaucrats into truce, make pirate warlords weep into their whiskey. But this?

This is different.

This is standing in the eye of a hurricane and daring it to blink.

And she’s doing it alone.

No. Not alone. I’m here. Just not where I’m used to being. I’m not leading the charge or tearing through hulls. I’m the blade sheathed at her hip, silent and deadly. Waiting to be drawn—not if she fails, but only if she asks.

It’s… unsettling.

To not be needed for my violence.

To be trusted for my presence.

Panaka’s words echo in my skull. If you’re wrong, girl… we all burn. He’s not wrong. This alliance she’s trying to cobble together is built on ash and venom. But she doesn’t flinch. Never does. She doesn’t just carry fire—she is fire.

And gods help the fools who try to smother it.

I catch movement in the corridor ahead—Yentil’s second-in-command, pacing like a storm about to crack. She sees me and stiffens.

“Status?” I ask, voice low.

“Talks are ongoing,” she says. “Your girl’s holding court with murderers and politicians like she was born to it.”

“She wasn’t.”

“But she’s good at it.”

That, she is.

I grunt and keep moving, each step dragging against the tether of restraint coiled around my instincts. I’ve never been good at spectating. But this isn’t about me. It hasn’t been for a while now.

She’s shifting the war, not with fire, but with force of will.

And for once, I’m content to watch her burn.

The shuttle groans under pressure as it detaches from Gamma’s upper port and banks toward the Widowmaker, black space yawning around me. Coalition ships loom at the edge of the sector, but none move. Not yet. Everyone’s waiting. Including me.

The Widowmaker doesn’t blink. She’s a fortress cloaked in midnight, armed to the fangs, and unapologetic about it. Just like her captain.

The docking clamps lock with a hiss. I step out into a corridor that smells like plasma, blood, and loyalty—Reaper signatures soaked into every inch of metal. I know this ship like I know my own bones.

Panaka waits in the command chamber, perched like a gargoyle in his highback chair, scowling before I even open my mouth.

“Don’t start,” I mutter.

He grunts, gesturing me forward. “You’re late.”

“I was busy not killing people.”

“That’s a shame.”

I can’t help the snort. Same old Panaka. Crusty bastard.

The room is dark, lit only by crimson emergency lights and the ghost-glow of tactical holomaps. Coalition cruisers blink like wolves on the edge of the pack. The Alliance scatter like startled birds. We’re the scythe in the wheat, still and waiting.

He doesn’t offer me a seat.

“You want a war council or a suicide pact?” he asks.

“Neither,” I reply.

He tilts his head, the jagged scars along his temple catching the light. “Ah. You want theater.”

“I want restraint.”

Panaka barks a laugh that could peel paint. “From Reapers?”

“From you.”

The smile drops.

I step forward, voice low, grounded. “Hold the line. That’s it. No shots unless fired on. Let her speak.”

Panaka narrows his eyes. “So the little human’s the voice of the galaxy now?”

“She’s the voice that’s kept Gamma breathing. The voice that stalled the slaughter. That counts for something.”

His gaze sharpens. “And what does it count for when they break their word?”

“Then you burn them all. But not before.”

The silence thickens.

Then he leans back, folding his arms across his massive chest. “You believe in her that much?”

I meet his stare. “More.”

He studies me like he’s sizing up an enemy—or a successor.

“You were never the diplomat,” he mutters.

“She’s not asking for diplomacy. She’s making a stand.”

“Dangerous thing.”

“She’s dangerous.”

That, at least, earns me a nod. Panaka rises from his seat, boots echoing against the deck as he paces toward the viewport.

“We’ll hold position,” he says. “No fire unless provoked. But if even one of those Alliance scum so much as flinches—”

“Then we answer. I know.”

He turns back to me, face hard as hull steel. “We’ll see if your human can stop the slaughter.”

I don’t respond.

Because it’s not up for debate.

She will.

She’s not just human. She’s mine. My jalshagar. My mirror in flesh and flame.

She walks with the weight of a thousand dead and dares the living to match her pace. She talks like fire and bleeds conviction. She’s not here to ask permission. She’s here to make the galaxy kneel or learn.

And I’ll stand behind her, blade in hand, while she teaches it.

The Widowmaker hums under my boots as battle tension coils tighter. Outside, the void waits.

But I don’t.

I turn on my heel and head back to the shuttle. The captain’s given his word, and Reapers don’t back down.

Neither does she.

The return flight to Gamma is short, but every second crawls like a dying beast. I can feel the shift in the stars, like they’re holding their breath. Maybe the whole galaxy is.

The Widowmaker disappears into the black behind me, her promise carried in her silence. No shots unless provoked. That’s the deal. Now all that’s left is for the rest of us to walk the razor edge Amara’s laid down.

I land hard, striding off the shuttle before the clamps finish their hiss. The air tastes burnt—ozone and scorched polymers still clinging to the ventilation systems. The station isn’t healing. It’s surviving, just barely.

I don’t head for the command deck.

I head for the forge.

The Reaper wing of Gamma’s armory is tucked in deep, beneath levels no human ventures without an escort. It smells like fire and old blood. My kind doesn’t believe in prayer, not really, but we know the weight of ritual. The sanctity of preparation.

My armor’s already waiting, laid out in reverence. Scorched plates reforged, claws refiled to razors, the blackened ridges gleaming in crimson light. I slide it on piece by piece, feeling the strength settle into my bones.

Bloodfont rests on the obsidian slab in the center of the forge, as beautiful and brutal as ever. I draw her from her sheath and run a whetstone down the edge with slow, steady strokes. Sparks spit into the shadows.

Every whisper of steel says the same thing: be ready.

If the summit fails, if Amara’s gamble ends in betrayal, we will not ask questions. We will not seek justice. We will make examples.

I sheath Bloodfont again, the hiss of the blade sliding home like a promise.

But I don’t leave.

Not yet.

In the far corner of the armory, hidden behind crates of shock charges and void grenades, there’s a workbench no one touches but me. The tools are old, analog—Reaper-made in the time before nanoforges, before precision AI. They bite back when you use them. Just the way I like it.

I set a strip of alloy down. Darksteel, forged from meteor-core and tempered in solar heat. Strong enough to hold meaning. I heat it, hammer it, shape it with hands still trembling from the memory of her skin against mine.

The collar isn’t for possession.

It’s not the old kind. Not a brand. Not a claim.

It’s a vow.

The first collar I gave her, I forged in rage and desperation—when everything I knew was spiraling out of control. This one? It’s different. Balanced. Thoughtful. A match to mine, but not identical. Hers has a different sigil, one carved not with dominance, but with reverence. With trust.

The metal sings under the hammer. One note, then another. By the time the shape is done, my hands ache, and sweat has soaked through my undersuit. But the pain is grounding. It reminds me why I fight.

If this peace she’s bargaining for holds… if she pulls this off… then maybe I can give her more than war. Maybe there’s a future outside blood and bone.

She’ll wear this, not as a tether—but as a choice.

And if it falls apart?

Then she’ll never need to wear it. Because I’ll be dead.

I set the collar beside Bloodfont and exhale slow, controlled.

This is what hope feels like. Heavy. Fragile. Dangerous.

And I’m ready for it.