Page 89 of Ravaged By the Reaper

I breathe, chest pulsing with words unsaid.

We step into the corridor together.

The ship lights bloom—red flares and gold streaks slicing across alien hieroglyphs etched into bulkhead panels.

Pirate crew members salute, laugh, nod. They see the deal. They see me. And I see them—finally, not for their notoriety, but for their humanity.

I smell oil, sweat, and something like hope.

“First task?” I ask Panaka.

He smirks, voice low.

“We have a ravaged trade convoy rebelling three decks up. Let’s go charm them into surrendering credits instead of lungs.”

I grin.

“You know how to tempt a storm, Reaper.”

He growls, lights flashing.

“We’ll do better. We’ll tame one.”

The boarding ramphisses behind us, and for a moment, all I can hear is the low thrum of the Widowmaker's engines—steady, primal, alive. Like a pulse beneath the deck plating, like the ship itself is breathing. I’m standing in the belly of a legend, surrounded by chaos and old ghosts and the scent of singed steel. I glance back once. Just once.

Starbase Gamma glows behind me through the hangar’s pressure shield, jagged and wounded but still standing. Somewhere in those halls, my past breathes—clean uniforms, whispering senators, soft smiles that never reached their eyes. They’ll write reports about this. Debriefings. Analyses. Footnotes in a history no one wants to remember.

But that’s not my story anymore.

I turn forward.

The Widowmaker looms like a cathedral of war, carved from black metal and lined with red light that pulses against the walls like blood. Everything about it screams warning, danger,death. But I feel calm. Grounded. Like it’s waiting for me—not to conquer, not to save—but to belong.

Haktron’s fingers brush mine.

I don’t need to look at him. I feel him—like a second gravity well, like a second spine. The heat of him radiates like reactor fire, and when I slide my hand into his, it feels less like a gesture and more like sealing a pact.

He doesn’t speak. He doesn’t need to. His presence hums across my nerves, a silent vow etched into skin and bone.

My collar gleams in the low light. It’s not tight. It’s not cruel. It’s forged of alloy and oath, not ownership. It reflects the glow of the ship’s lighting, catching glimmers of crimson across the etching at its base—the Jalshagar mark.

I am not merely his captive, nor am I just his assignment. I am more than just his jalshagar. I am something new, something greater now.

“I was born in silk,” I murmur, watching the light scatter across the floor as we step deeper into the ship, “trained to pour wine, recite poetry, and die beautifully if needed.”

He doesn’t flinch. Just walks beside me, silent.

“But I learned war in the dark. And I bled for the stars.”

Still, no words. Just the rhythm of his steps matching mine, our shadows tangled.

I glance sideways.

“I used to think I had to be someone for someone else. A role. A costume. A story with a beginning and an end.”

His voice rumbles low and sharp. “You are none of those things.”

“No,” I say, my fingers tightening on his. “I’mallof them. And I’m done apologizing for it.”