Page 72 of Ravaged By the Reaper

“One ship. Me.”

“No escort?”

“You don’t need it. I bring more threat solo than most fleets do fully armed.”

He disconnects without another word.

I stare at the darkened screen for a beat. My heart’s a drumline. My skin feels too tight. My lungs are too shallow. This is happening.

I walk back to the command deck. Yentil looks up from the logistics console, his brows already pinching.

“Well?”

“They’re coming.”

“Gods help us.”

“Maybe,” I say. “Maybe we help ourselves first.”

I grab a datapad and begin drafting the agenda. Ceasefire terms. Territory boundaries. Civilian protections. We’re not going to solve everything—but we can lay foundation. One that doesn’t crack under the weight of fear.

The first transmission hits the station’s outer array thirty minutes later. A Coalition cruiser decloaks near the neutral zone. Not firing. Just watching.

Five minutes later, an Alliance dreadnought moves to flank it. Same stance. Silent. Still.

Panaka’s ship drops in last. Like he’s been watching from orbit the whole damn time and waited just long enough to be theatrical.

He hails me personally.

“Docking bay two. Bring security.”

I answer with a nod.

I turn to Yentil. “Time to suit up.”

He laughs bitterly. “This is insane.”

“Insane’s gotten us this far.”

The summit chamber is stark—nothing more than a repurposed storage unit with polished floors and hastily scrubbed bloodstains. But we needed neutral ground, and this was the only section left with enough structural integrity to hold three factions without imploding from sheer tension.

I stand at the head of the table, heart jackhammering behind my ribs. No armor. No weapons. Just a sleek IHC-blue uniform and a datapad clutched tight enough to warp the frame. The scent of cleanser and scorched circuits hangs in the air, sharp and synthetic. The walls hum with shield reinforcements. Gamma’s not taking any chances.

I’m about to speak when I feel him before I see him—Haktron’s presence thick as gravity behind me.

He doesn’t touch me. Doesn’t clear his throat. Just stands there. Watching. Solid. Silent.

I turn.

He’s shed most of his battle gear—just the black undersuit and a deep blue sash tied at his waist, a quiet nod to diplomacy. But it’s his eyes that stop me. Not the usual smolder. Not the predator coiled and ready to pounce. Something warmer. Sharper.

Pride.

“You’re not here to stop me?” I ask, voice quiet.

His brow lifts. “Would it matter if I was?”

I huff. “No. But I figured you’d try anyway.”