Page 59 of She Who Devours the Stars

She disconnected without another word. I admired her style.

I sat back, let my pulse settle. The mythship’s lights faded from battle-alert to a gentle blue, a color I’d learned meant “bored but not unhappy.” I turned in my chair, stretched out my arms, and let myself relax for the first time in a week.

Then the security lead came back, still screaming. I let him. He could have the last word.

I muted the comm, spun the chair, and checked the local feeds. The planet had already decided to ignore the bureaucracy and throw a festival. The main city’s message board overflowed with invitations to “taco parties” and “Nullarch Watch events,” all timed to our estimated arrival. There was even a rumor that someone had built a Fern effigy out of pure glucose and was preparing to ignite it in her honor.

I snorted, then laughed, then finally allowed myself the luxury of leaning back and closing my eyes.

Two hours. That was the new record for “time spent in negotiation before someone tried to threaten me with planetary self-destruct.”

I could live with it.

When I opened my eyes, the mythship was still holding station, the stars behind her a static field of potential disaster.

I smiled, let the exhaustion catch up.

Somewhere on the surface, Fern was already a legend.

But up here, I was the only thing standing between the planet and mythic meltdown.

And I was not about to lose to a bunch of tacos.

I poured myself a drink from the bridge minibar, black coffee, nothing else, and prepared for whatever came next.

Eventide wanted a show.

I’d make sure they got it.

But on my terms.

Thread Modulation: Fern Meldin

Axis Modulation: Inside Vireleth

The next phase of the disaster wasn’t dramatic. It was just a notification chime and a drink.

I was back in the lounge, sitting cross-legged on the lowest mesh hammock and ignoring the countdown to surface approach, when the mythship’s snack AI offered me a glass. It wasn’t a random cocktail; it was my childhood favorite lime-mango fizz, salted rim, and three neonfruit slices bobbing on the top, cut into the shape of smiley faces.

I took the drink, skeptical. I hadn’t remembered liking this, not really. It was one of those flavors you drank because your parents said, “Pick something, or nothing,” and you always picked something, so it became a ritual. I took a cautious sip, expecting the memory of cheap syrup and recycled tap.

Instead, I got hit with a taste so perfect it bypassed nostalgia and punched me straight in the hypothalamus.

Sweet, sour, clean, a burn of sodium on the lips and a splash of fake citrus on the tongue. The cold shocked my teeth, the fizz bit at my sinuses, and for a split second, I was ten years old again, sitting in the kitchen with both parents, drinking lime-mango fizz on a dare while they argued about whether or not to let me color my hair with off-brand mythdye.

I downed half the glass in one go, blinked, and stared at it.

“Creepy,” I muttered, and finished it. “Another.”

The AI obliged, this time with a garnish of candied ginger. It was showing off, but I respected the hustle.

Across the room, Velline was pacing in front of the window, eyes on the blue-white glow of Eventide’s surface. She wore a floor-length robe that looked like it had cost more than the average city block, and she’d already swapped in two fresh hair colors since breakfast.

“So,” she said, “when do we get to nerd camp?”

I shrugged. “Whenever they clear us to land. Dyris is still on comms with orbital command, trying to convince them we’re not here to seduce their moons out of alignment.”

Velline grinned. “Please, if we wanted to, we already would have.”