Arvak stepped forward.

  His Crozius blazed like a newborn sun, its light cutting through smoke and ash, casting long shadows across the ruined cargo dock. His voice rang out—loud, absolute.

  "Steel to hand! Flame to heart! We are the line!"

  The words hit Kade like thunder through water. For one breathless instant, the ragged throbs of his torn heart quieted. His shattered ribs ached less. He drew a full breath into failing lungs.

  "Let the stars fall! Let the void scream! We are the line!"

  It did not heal.

  It did not save.

  But it gave strength.

  The final surge.

  The last breath made holy.

  "Burn! Bleed! Break! Brothers—RISE!"

  And rise they did.

  Across the shattered dock, wounded Astartes surged to their feet. Arms ruined. Eyes blind. Armor cracked and gouting sparks. But they moved. They charged. Not in defiance of death—for their brothers.

  Their voices, one and all, be a half-whispered chant from ruined lungs, or the full-throated roar of one still able to fight, joined with Arvak in unison.

  "WE ARE THE FIRE THAT DOES NOT FADE!"

  And the Angel?

  It howled.

  Arms raised, wings curling in around itself like a shroud, it staggered back. Black smoke poured from its flesh, boiling where the Crozius' light touched. Its radiant form buckled under the weight of a truer radiance. The kind born not of demonic mimicry—but of belief. Of faith.

  Arvak marched forward, unflinching. His light burned hotter, brighter, like a star pulled down to walk among corpses and chaos.

  All around him, the warriors of Nocturne rose. Not because they believed they could win.

  Because they knew they must try.

  They charged with whatever they could grip—cracked bolters, half-shattered blades, scavenged pipes. One brother wrapped his fists in blood-soaked cabling. Another gripped a length of steel rebar like a relic.

  They fell upon the angel in a storm of fury and flame.

  The monster met them. Not like a warrior—but like a hurricane answering a challenge. Its crimson blade punched through one Astartes, carved down through torso to split another. Warp energy rippled outward, blasting bodies back—not as violently as before, but enough to clear a space, to buy it breath.

  And yet it bled.

  What ichor passed for blood steamed in the holy light, sizzling away in oily trails. Its skin blistered and cracked, flaking in patches scorched raw by Arvak's advance.

  But it was learning.

  It folded space, vanished from sight, a blur of shadow and displacement. Arvak turned, hammer already swinging—only to strike nothing.

  The angel had outplayed him.

  It reappeared before him instead, blade shrieking through the air toward the Chaplain's exposed neck, curved with hunger, edged with hatred.

  But it never landed.

  Two of the four Sentinel drones fired mid-strike, lightning bolts cracking like thunder against the monster's ribs. Molten holes opened in its side as it staggered, armor softening under the impact.

  Then the Vipers fired.

  Five pairs of whisper-lance beams punched into it with surgical finality.

  Heart. Brain. Spine. Lungs. Groin.

  A moment of silence passed across the command feed. The first four Vipers swiveled in unison to regard the fifth.

  A pause.

  'That's for the bridal kidnapping attempt, creep,' Sasha muttered down the link.

  Yet nothing compared to Arvak's hammerblow.

  Following through with his turn, the Crozius came around like judgment, smashing into the angel's side with the force of a thunderhead. The impact cracked through flesh and falsehood alike. Not just burning—splitting.

  The creature screamed.

  Cracks of white-hot rupture raced through its form—not along armor, but deeper, into essence. Not injury. Fracture. Warp-stuff writhed from the contact, recoiling like wounded metal under a blacksmith's hammer.

  It stumbled, eyes wide, mouth open in confusion and pain.

  Unlike every prior wound—these did not heal.

  Panicked, it lunged backward, wings flaring for lift—

  —only to scream again as a power axe bit into its back.

  The blade sunk deep, power-field tearing through muscle and bone. It spun with a snarl, lashing a wing toward Arvak while slashing its sword at the attacker—

  —but Arvak was already moving. He stepped aside, Crozius swinging upward with terrible grace, striking the wing's base—

  CRACK.

  The wingbone snapped.

  One of the Sentinels dropped.

  A precision-guided titan of violence, it landed on the sword arm with a crash of shattered decking. The angel's blade slammed into the floor, sparks flying as it tried to twist free.

  Too late.

  The Astartes with the axe wrenched his weapon sideways, carving it deep into the angel's shoulder.

  The creature spasmed.

  Fractures skittered across its form in jagged white arcs, dancing up the broken wing, splitting through its collar. The limb flopped, useless.

  It was breaking.

  Not just hurt—undone.

  The angel reeled.

  Its once-impossible grace staggered, the falseness of its beauty fraying with every crack that lanced through its radiant form. Wings torn, shoulder shattered, it tried to blink through stuttering folds of space—desperate to escape.

  But Arvak did not relent.

  His Crozius swung in a wide arc, dragging searing light across the deck as he advanced without hesitation. His helm had been torn free earlier in the battle, revealing a face carved from fire and stone—eyes alight with something older than fury.

  Faith.

  Pure and terrible in all its glory.

  Arvak's voice rose.

  "Creature of lies—behold the truth!"

  The words fell like thunder.

  The angel flinched. Black ichor steamed from its ribs.

  "You wear stolen wings and false light!"

  A blister split open across its chest. Warp-light flickered within, then dimmed.

  "But my faith is a crucible, and you shall not pass it unburned!"

  Its knees buckled.

  The chant was not a just a prayer to the angel. Each syllable a scalpel. Each word a curse carved in belief. The angel had devoured so much faith, had become so steeped in it, that now—

  —faith could harm it.

  And Arvak was nothing if not faith.

  His brothers saw it.

  They felt it.

  Without a word, they moved.

  Wounded giants threw themselves between the angel and Arvak. One blocked a blade meant for the Chaplain, catching it through his gut. Another tackled a warp-wreathed wing before it could scythe across Arvak's path.

  A third raised a broken shield and took the full brunt of a psychic scream—his armor crumpled, helm shattering, but he did not fall.

  They would not let him fall.

  They fought as one—not to kill, but to protect the one who could. A wall of emerald and obsidian armor, of flame and devotion, of blood and broken bones. Salamanders, forged in suffering, now forging victory in their deaths.

  Arvak's chant grew louder.

  "By the flame of the Mountain, I cast out the shadows!"

  The angel screamed as Arvak's hammer took its left knee, the limb snapping clean under the strike.

  Its voice lost all music. It became static and shrieking glass, its form buckling under the psychic resonance of belief turned blade.

  It lashed out blindly—its sword a red comet in the smoke. It impaled one of the Sentinels, split another Astartes in half. It blasted out with shockwaves that hurled men across the deck, but Arvak did not stop.

  He could not.

  "By the will of the Forge, I burn the heretic to ash!"

  The angel tried to swing its arm, to hurl them back with warp born sorcery, but a brother grabbed the arm, wrenching everything within himself to stop its attack.

  Arvak's hammer crashed into the angels shoulder, more cracks filling the angels body as its very essence came apart.

  Raising his hammer over his head, his grip tightened, the fire blazed higher, hotter, stronger than ever before, the wrath of a god made manifest through the devotion of his faithful.

  "By the anvil of the Father, I break the unclean!"

  The hammer fell, striking the angel's skull, the hand of judgment itself.

  The impact was silence.

  Not the absence of sound—but the vacuum left behind when something sacred is shattered.

  Light exploded from the angel's skull, cracks webbing across its aspect of stolen divinity. Its halo flickered—then shattered like glass, the shards burning to ash before they struck the ground.

  It crumpled, slumping as its strength bled away. Feathers blackened and curled inward. Golden armor disintegrated into motes of ash-light. Its skull—half-crushed—finally collapsed inward.

  Its beauty gone.

  Its radiance dimmed.

  Its lie at last, broken.

  A sharp snap cracked the air as the angel's body discorporated, vanishing in a spiral of light and ash—drawn back to whatever hell had birthed it.

  Almost to a man, the Astartes collapsed, sagging to their knees or falling where they stood—bleeding from wounds both mortal and not. Those who could still move turned, eyes instinctively seeking Arvak.

  The Chaplain did not falter.

  "Anyone who can still stand—grab the wounded. Get them to the medica. Save who we can."

  He raised his hammer toward the shattered bulkhead where the angel's worshippers still lingered beyond.

  "Secure the flank," he barked to the two remaining Sentinels. "I will not have our brothers ambushed while they bleed."

  The canine drones gave curt nods before loping off in unison, long-legged shadows slipping into the smoke as they took positions at the northern barricade.

  Only nine Astartes remained standing.

  Each hauled a wounded brother by the plate over their shoulders, steps thundering as they made all speed towards the chirurgeons.

  Kade lay near the outermost edge of the blast zone—flung by the angel's final surge. His eyes fluttered, breath shallow. His vitals dropped steadily, indicators flashing red across his HUD. The world around him blurred.

  IRA:

  User KADE. Medical aid is en route. This unit will ensure you remain conscious.

  A ragged cough tore through him. Blood spilled down the front of his chestplate.

  "Oh?" he rasped, voice cracked. "And how—"

  Another cough. A bubble burst in his throat.

  "—how will you do that?"

  IRA:

  Redirection of electrical output into carapace.

  "You're going to shock me if I pass out?"

  IRA:

  Correct. Medical assistance is thirty seconds out. This unit will ensure user KADE's survival.

  That is this unit's primary directive.

  This unit will not fail.

  Then he saw it—a tiny, gunmetal blur skittering across the deck. No larger than a man's palm, a Viper drone clambered toward him, its segmented body glinting in the firelight, its dozen legs tapping over fractured ceramite.

  One limb waggled at him in greeting.

  A private vox pinged open.

  "Hey Kade," came Sasha's voice—smooth as ever, honeyed with just a pinch of concern. "Been a while. You look like hell."

  The drone reached his chestplate and extended a small manipulator from beneath its belly, depositing a tiny grey pellet into the rent above his primary heart.

  Then—cold.

  A chill blossomed in his chest like the sting of winter air across exposed nerve. It crawled along his torso in pinpricks, fireflies beneath the skin.

  He tried to speak.

  "Wh—"

  He made it halfway before another cough splattered the inside of his helm with fresh blood.

  "Nanite repair cluster," Sasha said, her tone light but edged with urgency. "Normally for fixing drones in the field, but they work just fine on tissue too. They'll patch your heart—but it's just a patch."

  The little drone tapped gently against his visor with one limb.

  "It won't hold if you hit combat stress. You'll need proper surgery. But this'll keep you from bleeding out in the dirt."

  The optic blinked once—soft blue light—then Sasha's tone brightened. "Now, if you'll excuse me... I've got more of your brothers to stitch back together. Don't go anywhere, alright?"

  The drone zipped off into the haze.

  Kade exhaled, blood bubbling in his throat. His head finally tilted back against the decking, eyes drifting upward to the blackened, smoke-choked ceiling of the freight dock.

  "…Ira?"

  IRA:

  Yes?

  "I am… conflicted."

  IRA:

  Understandable.

  Rest. The enemy is slain. You are victorious.

  Recover.

  This unit will keep watch.

  Kade's lips moved beneath the blood-crusted grille of his helm. The words came soft.

  "…Thank you."

  -

  The Crozius had struck too deep.

  The light in its body flickered—not from fading power, but from something deeper. A fracture in its essence. Its song had skipped a beat, and now the harmony would not return.

  This body is failing.

  The angel's eyes flared white as the ritual buried within its stolen form activated. A warp-fold collapsed inward, tethered to the anchor it had marked in the reactor core.

  Return to the heart. Reclaim control. Consume the will of the machine.

  It vanished.

  But something was wrong.

  The jump twisted sideways—a gust of wind catching wings mid-flight. It spun. Reversed. Pulled not toward the machine's soul—

  —but toward a boy made of sermons.

  It reappeared, not before steel or plasma coils, but before the Brandt twins.

  They stood at the junction outside the bridge—charred walls, flickering lights, and too many mortals. This was wrong.

  No power here. No controls. No victory. Just… them.

  Two mortals. Familiar. Fragile.

  Unprotected.

  Unworthy.

  Its eyes locked on them—Tara and Kala. Their bloodline carried something potent. Something the angel had wanted once, long ago, before the distraction of the forge, before Arvak's hammer and his god-ridden words.

  Too close.

  Too exposed.

  Too wrong.

  "NO!"

  The angel's voice shredded the air, static and fury bound in a single scream. Its blade snapped upward, already arcing down in a gleam of crimson light and howling disbelief. It would cut this moment out of the story.

  It would erase the error.

  Kala moved first.

  Too slow.

  She lunged for her sister, arms wide, ready to shield her with her body. Feet leaden, heart raw. She would've taken the blow—if she had been more. Stronger. Faster.

  But she was mortal.

  Even broken, even burned, the angel moved faster than thought.

  The blade came down—a divine execution.

  And faltered.

  Not by choice.

  By interference.

  The strike bent sideways mid-swing, not enough to miss, but enough to ruin it. Instead of Tara's chest, the blade raked across her abdomen. A mortal wound, yes. But not the ending he intended.

  "No," the angel hissed, recoil twisting through its frame like a glitch. "No!"

  It hadn't hesitated.

  But the world had.

  Time had curved. Intent had bent. The path of its blade had been redirected—subtly, but with purpose.

  The demon reeled back, soul-sense flaring like a snared nerve. There—faint, but real. A flicker in the air. A golden resistance that rippled out from the girls—no, behind them. Buried like a root beneath the ground.

  A soul.

  Aleron's.

  Twisting. Shifting. Something within it pushed outward, like a blade hidden in cloth.

  A will not its own.

  The soul the angel had once touched, once molded, once claimed—now resisted.

  And more than resisted.

  It fought back.

  "You dare?" the angel spat aloud, gaze seething toward the hallway beyond the girls. "I made you—you belong to me!"

  It could feel the pressure in the air within that soul. A whispered defiance not of rage, but of sorrow. Not challenge. But remembrance.

  The angel didn't understand it.

  It only knew it had been blocked.

  By a soul it thought it owned.

  By a pawn that had turned, wielding a strength not his own.

  The angel's blade lifted once more—high, final—meant to end both lives in one severing arc.

  A howl in the weave.

  A rip in the world.

  It staggered, senses flaring, head whipping around.

  Behind it: a rift.

  A yawning portal, emerald and azure, blazing like a wound in time. The taste of it was sharp and clumsy—psionic power forced through meat-sense and mortal focus. A child's sketch beside its own symphonies of thought, but real nonetheless. A crude insult in its domain.

  The bridge door slammed open.

  And Xal'Zyr stepped through.

  Warp-light bled from his eyes—pure, merciless. No chant. No command. No words at all.

  Only fire.

  Then: impact.

  Orvek, battered and bloodied, hurled himself at the angel with a ragged war-cry, slamming into it shoulder-first. The force rocked the demon a half-step—but it didn't yield.

  Not until Xal followed.

  He struck low, driving forward with the strength of will forged over centuries, focused into motion. They hit together—a hammer and its echo.

  But still—the angel held.

  The angel's broken frame braced against the roof support beam, fingers gouging into steel. One knee shattered. One wing dragging. But its good leg was enough. It held.

  And it began to repair.

  Flesh knitted. Bone mended. Its arm, ruined from the fight with Arvak, surged with power—trembling toward readiness. It would not fall. It would rise. And it would—

  "NO."

  Mortal hands joined the fray.

  Tara and Kala, pressing forward alongside armsmen, shoving bodies into the fight. Pushing. Screaming. Bleeding. Praying. It was not power—it was weight. Desperation. Mass. They could not kill—but they could move.

  Then—

  A flicker.

  Far end of the corridor. Two more shapes in the smoke:

  Two Astartes, one short, handsome, his bolt pistol raised.

  The other propped up on one arm, blood weeping from the terrible wounds that covered his body, but the blue glow of the plasma pistol in his hand shone out clear.

  Bolt and plasma struck its hand, searing through divine flesh and molten bone. The grip melted, fingers unraveling into liquid gold as the angel staggered—then tumbled backward into the portal alongside the Astartes.

  It hit the steel deck with a thunderclap of wings and wrath, crashing down in a scatter of scorched feathers and trailing motes of gold. The light bent around it as it rolled upright, armored boots gouging sparks from the floor.

  Too late.

  Xal'Zyr was already moving.

  His arm swept upward, clawed fingers curled around a molten core of warpfire cradled before his chest. Midnight-blue robes whipped in a conjured wind, the air around him frosting over, shards of glittering ice spreading across the deck like creeping glass.

  The flame in his hand shifted—orange to red, red to cobalt, cobalt to-

  White-hot brilliance. Dense. Radiating gravity. The air bent inward as it pulsed.

  Warpfire condensed—compressed into a singularity of purpose. No longer fire. No longer flame.

  Plasma.

  Reality screamed as he unleashed it.

  The lance struck the angel center-mass—no explosion, no concussive thunder. Just carving.

  Through radiant armor. Through divine muscle. Through the sculpted falsehood that veiled its monstrous soul. The beam sheared a line of white agony through its torso, straight into the keystone—the golden oval embedded where a heart should have been.

  The angel recoiled.

  It tried to scream.

  No sound came.

  Only cracks.

  Hairline fractures spiderwebbed out from the point of impact, racing through its ribs, its spine, its soul. Gleaming fault lines pulsed with silent light, too precise to be pain. Too cold to be fury.

  The training hall trembled.

  The aura that haloed its form flickered—not with waning strength, but with broken illusion.

  And as the glow faltered…

  …the truth beneath began to show.

  -

  It staggered.

  The hole in its chest did not bleed blood—it bled truth.

  Not the kind mortals wept in whispered prayers, but the raw, uncut isness of its being, spilling across the deck like sunlight torn from the core of a dying star.

  That psyker's fire.

  That child, playing with flame and fate.

  He had touched the keystone.

  Not shattered it—but marred it.

  And that was enough.

  Enough to end it, if it stayed.

  No more games. No more ceremonies.

  It turned, one ruined wing dragging behind like a broken banner, warpflesh cracking wetly at the joints. The air trembled around it, shimmered where its glory failed to hold.

  Aleron's soul—

  Silent now. Its strength spent. Its defiance fled.

  The leash was broken. No more distractions.

  It raised a trembling claw. Fingers curled inward—not into a fist, but into the fabric of reality itself, like a child clawing for comfort beneath the sheets. It tore the veil. Space bent, cracked, and peeled apart like rotted bark, revealing the flickering, sun-bright coils of the reactor core beyond.

  Its sanctum. It's altar.

  The ceremony… It had meant for it to be perfect.

  For the blood to fall like rain.

  For the Brandts to kneel.

  For the angel to rise.

  But now?

  Now it was dying.

  Arvak's faith had seared away its glamour.

  The psyker's precision had pierced its essence.

  The Astartes—those stubborn, fire-forged wretches—had refused to die.

  It dragged itself through the portal like a wounded beast slinking back to its lair.

  It reached for the reactor coils—not with reverence, not with ceremony.

  It devoured them.

  Like a drowning king gasping flame, it ripped the plasma from the ship's heart. It drank the power down raw, warp-light surging through its form in screaming pulses—coursing into the shattered keystone, flooding every broken nerve, every fraying halo-spoke.

  Bare, elemental energy.

  The sludge of the materium.

  Dirt, after feasting on divine adoration.

  But it would suffice.

  It would sustain.

  But it could not remain.

  Its worshippers—dead or dying.

  The Astartes—wounded, yes, but not broken.

  That psyker—far more potent than expected, a quiet soul hiding a storm of might.

  The silver shards—those mechanical attack dogs still prowling the ship.

  And the empty man.

  The hole in the wheel.

  No.

  Too many unknowns. Too many threats still drawing breath.

  Escape.

  But where?

  It cast its mind into the aether, searching—not for glory, not now—but for survival. A sliver of sanctuary.

  Not home. Its kindred of the deep would tear it apart.

  Not the shallows. The Four held the Near Shore too tightly. Land there, and it would kneel—or be consumed.

  That left the materium.

  It sought worship.

  And it found it.

  Across the Tear.

  A world suffused in devotion, a planet singing its stolen name in praise, in icon, in fire.

  It could reach it.

  Barely.

  But it would cost nearly everything.

  Hesitation warred with desperation in what passed for its heart.

  They were coming.

  It could feel them. The blades. The guns. The light. The faith.

  They would not stop.

  Not now.

  Not ever.

  It made its choice.

  Space folded. Warp bent. And the angel hurled itself into the void.

  A name echoed at the edge of memory—not truly remembered, not truly felt, for it had no heart to feel it.

  Baal.

  -

  Pressure returned first.

  Not in the lungs—not yet—but in the ears, behind the eyes, beneath the skin. A low, pulsing throb, as if his body remembered gravity before breath. Something ancient stirred beneath his sternum, a fluttering static.

  Air.

  His chest seized. No slow intake, no gentle gasp—a forced expansion, ribs cracking open like a vacuum seal breaking. His first breath sounded more like a gasp from drowning than a sigh of life. Air scraped through his throat, dry as dust, leaving heat and pain in its wake.

  "Initiating cardiac cascade," Sasha whispered somewhere inside, her voice syrupy calm over roaring blood. "Don't move. You're still rebooting your meat."

  His heart kicked with a violent THUD, like someone had dropkicked a war drum into his spine.

  It staggered, stuttering, then caught rhythm like an engine syncing after liftoff.

  His back arched.

  Every nerve flickered on.

  Pain. So much pain. Not injury—activation.

  Tendons lit up like mag-stripped cables. Muscle clusters flooded with electro-stim and oxygen-saturated nanofluid. Bone marrow stirred, dumping fresh red into tired veins.

  His fingers spasmed. Legs twitched. Jaw clenched hard enough to crack molars.

  "You were out for thirty-three minutes, tweleve seconds," Sasha continued. "Oxygen saturation holding at sixty-two percent and climbing. Don't panic."

  He wasn't. Not really. But something in him wanted to scream. Not in fear—in defiance. As if his body were offended it had been put on pause.

  Vision flickered next. Not black-to-color, but something stranger—data overlays, targeting reticles, gravitational tilt indicators—slamming back into consciousness one by one. He blinked, once, and the world pixelated back into form.

  Metal overhead. Burned metal. Elissa's silhouette.

  His skin burned and froze simultaneously. His body temperature had dropped below safe levels to survive vacuum—now it fought to restore equilibrium, and it hurt.

  "C'mon, darlin'. You're almost there. Just one more system," Sasha murmured.

  Then it hit: the cognitive core.

  His mind came online like a power relay engaging—a sudden, perfect clarity—his thoughts unfurling from a compressed state like wings from a sarcophagus.

  'Elissa is here. Vacuum event concluded. No hull rupture. Approximate elapsed time—confirmation pending.'

  "Koron?" Her voice. Close. Real. Warm.

  He groaned. Just a sound, no words yet. His jaw barely moved. Muscles still remembered the chill of not existing.

  Elissa was crouched over him, visor open, her hands trembling as they hovered just above his chest—unsure whether to press down or pull back.

  "I shouldn't have let you do it," she said, voice barely above a whisper. "We could've waited. I could've—"

  He coughed.

  It sounded like a rusted engine trying to scream.

  "...Not your fault," he rasped. "Ran the numbers."

  Her eyes narrowed. "You're a man, not a spreadsheet."

  "Speak for yourself," Sasha chimed in, tone dry. "He's got seventeen spreadsheet backups running neural risk models right now."

  He tried to smile. It didn't quite work. His lips twitched. Blood ran from one nostril. That felt about right.

  She exhaled and wiped it with her sleeve. "Can you move?"

  He nodded. Once. A slow, grinding motion.

  Then he vomited—a thick, black stream of inert metabolic fluid and emergency cryo-toxin purge. It steamed on the metal deck. The smell was acrid, sharp.

  "Oh. That's new." Elissa muttered, edging away from the puddle.

  "Expected," Sasha said lightly. "He's purging cryo-inhibitor gel. Perfectly safe. Just don't touch it. Or breathe it. Or... look at it too long."

  Koron wiped his mouth with the back of one metal arm. His arms worked. That was something.

  His voice came next. Rough, but his own.

  "…How bad?"

  Elissa didn't answer right away. Her eyes scanned him, tracking the tiny tremors in his limbs, the flicker of returning muscle control, the low hum of his systems reactivating.

  "You looked like a corpse," she said.

  He grunted. "Felt worse."

  Then softer: "You carried me."

  She shrugged. "You've carried us enough."

  Another pause.

  Then, from her: "Don't do that again."

  He closed his eyes for a moment, trying to push a smile onto still blue lips.

  "Not planning on it."

  A knock rang out from the interior airlock hatch. Elissa spun, one arm raised in reflex—only to frown as no lightning flickered, no arcs snapped to life along her forearm. "Hey… how do I turn on the lightning gun?"

  Koron, still facedown on the deck, tried to lift a hand. It twitched. Barely. "That's me, I'm afraid, not the suit. Also—it's not a gun."

  "It's also just me," Lucia's voice chimed in over the comms, syrupy and chipper as the hatch slid open. The teardrop form of a Prometheus drone shimmered into view, decloaking with a soft crackle of displacement fields.

  "So, some good news and bad news. Good news—"

  "Not even gonna ask us which we want first?" Koron muttered.

  "Oh hush, sugar," Sasha cooed. "Let the girl speak."

  "Good news is the mutiny seems to be over. The cultists have all collapsed—unconscious, for the moment. Armsmen are sweeping through, rounding them up. To the brig, not the airlocks… for now."

  "Shit," Elissa muttered, crouching beside Koron. She looped his arm over her shoulders and grunted as she hoisted him upright.

  "Lucia, get word to Jacob. He needs to get down to the reactor core now. Milo and the others—if the armsmen find them first—"

  "Already on it," Elly said brightly through the link. "Jacob's crew is twenty minutes ahead of the closest Hammer security sweep. Milo and the boys should be just fine."

  Elissa exhaled hard. Relief flushed her face, faint but real. She glanced sidelong at Koron.

  "I don't suppose anyone thought to find a spare set of clothing for him?"

  "No," Sasha replied, smug as sin. "But we did recover your old gear. Even got the dress~"

  "You can set that on fire," Elissa deadpanned. "Not my style."

  "And the bad news?" Koron asked, grunting as he coaxed his legs into remembering they existed.

  Lucia's voice didn't shift tone—but something cold edged into her cadence.

  "A lot of wounded. Most of the Astartes are down. They left Morrak with eighty-six. This battle cost them sixty-four."

  Elissa stopped walking. The number seemed to hang in the air like smoke.

  "Emperor's blood," she breathed. "Twenty-two... Is that battle-ready, or just survivors?"

  You might be reading a pirated copy. Look for the official release to support the author.

  "Survivors," Lucia said. "Only nine of them are still combat-effective. The rest are too damaged to fight. Some won't wake up."

  "The companies done," Sasha added, quieter now. "They might not say it. Might not know it yet. But this... this broke them."

  Elissa felt her mouth go dry. "What's going to happen to them?"

  "I don't know, darlin'." Sasha's voice was softer than it should've been. "Too many eyes are gonna be watching now. Questions asked. Reports filed. Heroes questioned like criminals. Best we can do is stay small, stay quiet, and pray the right people stay blind."

  "Speaking of," Koron murmured, glancing up at the drone overhead, "Wrap up your projects. Activate the Purloined Letter contingency."

  "Acknowledged," Lucia replied. "Final drone batch will complete within the hour. Replacement servitors now online. Nearest Imperial vessels are forty-five hours and fifty-one minutes away, realspace vector confirmed. Contingency will be passable in one hour. Complete in five."

  "Okay," Elissa said cautiously as she helped Koron forward, "the what now?"

  He tried for a smile. The effort hurt.

  "Old Terran story. A thief steals a political document—something powerful. The guards rip his house apart looking for it. But he'd hidden it in plain sight, in a different envelope on the desk. No trick. Just boldness."

  "So you're going to..."

  "Reboot the ship. Let the servitors pretend the Mechanicus crew survived. Hide every system I touched behind normalcy and forged logs. Drones mimic the living. It'll look like the Indomitable weathered the storm."

  "And that'll work?"

  "It's a bluff. But it's the best one I've got."

  "Hey!" Lucia squawked. "I take offense to being called a bluff."

  "You're excluded, naturally."

  They shared a thin smile—but it didn't linger.

  There was a pressure in the air now. Not heat. Not vibration. Just... weight. The kind that settled on the shoulders before judgment fell. The aftermath was still settling, like dust after a detonation—but they could all feel it. Something bigger had taken notice.

  Elissa glanced back down the corridor—where the wounded were being gathered, where the ashes of a battle still glowed.

  "They're coming, aren't they?"

  Sasha didn't answer right away. When she did, her voice was low.

  "Not just the Inquisition. Not just Mars. All of them."

  Lucia's optical feed pulsed red. "Forty-five hours," she repeated. "And falling."

  "Which means," Koron murmured, eyes narrowing, "we have forty-four hours to disappear."

  -

  Kade woke slowly, blinking into the low, sterile light of the recovery ward. Voices called orders around him—sharp, exhausted, urgent. The squeal of wheels, the clank of gurneys, the dull hum of servitors replying in binaric monotone filled the air alongside the thick scent of copper, antiseptic, and scorched ceramite.

  He tried to sit up. A mistake.

  Pain rolled across his chest like a thunderhead. His breath hitched, rib-plate aflame. He grunted and sank back into the cot, jaw clenched.

  Discretion, he thought grimly, the better part of valor.

  He turned his head slowly, eyes scanning the overburdened medicae bay. Triage beds packed wall to wall. Astartes and mortal alike laid out on stretchers, some silent, others groaning softly or whispering litanies.

  He caught sight of Doc—bloodied, limping, but alive—barking orders at a knot of Guardsman medics and Sisters Hospitaller. She moved like a woman held together by threadbare will, her voice steady even as her left arm trembled.

  Chief Apothecary Sevar Tann stood over a surgical slab, wrist-deep in Captain Tavos' chest cavity. The Captain's fused ribplate had been cracked apart, his secondary heart exposed. A tech-priest beside Tann had opened his own arms like a toolbox, servo-limbs weaving in to assist with calculated precision.

  Kade watched for several long minutes, head pillowed on one arm. At last, Tann nodded. Bone fragments were removed. The Captain's chest was sealed again, ports reattached. A rebreather was fitted, intravenous lines snaking into his body to drip vital chems and stabilizers.

  A soft click beside him made Kade glance to the left. His helmet rested on a nearby tray, scorched and blackened but intact. He reached out, fingers curling around its edge with a grunt of effort, dragging it closer. He set it gently beside his head.

  "You there?" he muttered, voice hoarse.

  Ira's voice came back at once. Flat. Crisp. Devoid of affect.

  "Affirmative. Status update?"

  "Please."

  "Mutiny contained. Cultists have been rounded up and detained. The angel did not vanish after engagement in the freight lift. It reappeared at the bridge and wounded VIP Tara. She has been stabilized by user Koron. Allies Xal'Zyr and Orvek engaged the entity but were unable to confirm destruction. Current probability: entity has vacated the vessel, based on cultist collapse and loss of warp signature."

  Kade closed his eyes, chewing on the information. The silence stretched a moment longer.

  "Continue."

  "Casualties among mortal crew: estimates still climbing. Current confirmed total: Two thousand one hundred forty-three. Astartes casualties—"

  She paused.

  Kade swore her voice—normally a monotone—dipped, softened by half a degree.

  "Sixty-four brothers have fallen."

  The words hit harder than any blade. He tried to breathe slowly, tried to summon the meditative focus hammered into him across decades of war. But the numbers lodged in his chest like shrapnel.

  The machine beside him beeped a sharp warning. Heart rate spiking.

  His hand clenched the bedrail. Metal creaked under the strain.

  He inhaled.

  It burned—his punctured third lung screaming in protest—but he held it.

  Held the fire, the grief, the rage.

  Let it wash over him.

  Then released it—slow and steady—dragging the pain out with the breath like poison from a wound.

  "This unit… is sorry."

  The words were soft. Hesitant. Not quite human, but close enough to sting.

  He reached up, fingers brushing the scorched surface of his helmet, tracing the fractures like old scars.

  "Not your fault," he murmured.

  His voice faltered. The words caught in his throat like shrapnel.

  "Without you—"

  He stopped. Closed his eyes. Breathed.

  Without you, what?

  Without her, more of his brothers might be dead?

  Without Koron, without the drones, without the Silica, what then?

  He might be dead. Tavos would be. Tara. Orvek. The whole damned ship might be floating in the void.

  His hand dropped to the bandage wrapped around his chest, brushing the soft cotton absently. There was a pulsing warmth beneath—he wasn't sure if it came from his reknitting organs or the emotions welling up in his chest.

  He remembered the lectures. The tomes. The oaths.

  The Abominable Intelligence.

  The Men of Iron.

  The Silicon Rebellion. The Age of Strife. The long, screaming fall from near-transcendence into the ash-scattered dark.

  They'd taught him what to believe. What to fear.

  And yet… here he was.

  He could rationalize it, couldn't he?

  Could call her a tool. A weapon. A means.

  But something in his chest rebelled against that.

  Ira had saved his life. Had saved his brothers lives. Fought beside him. Carried out orders without hesitation—even learned. She'd held the line when flesh had failed.

  What do you call something like that, if not an ally?

  A new thought struck him, quiet as snowfall, but no less jarring.

  When had he started calling Ira… her?

  Not the AI. Not the system. Not it.

  Her.

  A whisper of memory fluttered past—how he'd spoken to her in the firefight, his tone softer than it should've been. How he'd thanked her. How he'd comforted her.

  When had that happened?

  When had the "unit" become a presence?

  When had a combat algorithm become someone?

  When had he started caring?

  "User Kade?" Ira's voice came softly—hesitant, a faint thread of concern woven into the clinical calm.

  He didn't have answers. Not real ones. The questions twisted out beyond his training, stretching toward the edges of philosophy—self, identity, purpose.

  Far outside the battlefield.

  Far outside him.

  He knew his limits. Knew what he was made for.

  Forged in fire. Molded for war. Bred to conquer, to bleed, to burn.

  And yet…

  It still ate at him.

  Like a sliver under the skin, that quiet, constant thought:

  When did this change?

  He remembered Vulkan's words.

  You are more than blades. More than fire. My sons, shape the flame—or be shaped by it.

  He exhaled slowly, placing his helmet on his chest. One massive hand settled over it with unconscious gentleness, the weight of the gesture greater than the helm itself.

  "It's alright, Ira," he said quietly. "Just… thinking."

  A pause. Then:

  "Affirmative. Can this unit be of assistance?"

  He rubbed his thumb over the embossed skull on the helmet's brow, the gesture part prayer, part habit.

  "You already have," he said. "Thank you."

  Another pause.

  Then, softer:

  "...This unit is unsure of the context. But user Kade is welcome."

  That almost made him smile.

  Almost.

  -

  Making her way back through the chaos of the medicae ward, arms full of supplies, Kala dropped the crate at Doc's side and vanished before the Sister could bark another order. She didn't wait for thanks. She needed to see her sister.

  Tara had already been seen by the overworked medics and summarily dismissed with a: "She's stable enough. Get her out—we've got people missing limbs." After they'd pushed her organs back in, sutured the worst of it, slapped a vial of meds into her hand, they'd all but punted them out the door.

  Kala had very nearly shot one of the doctors. Tara talked her down.

  The trip back to their hab block had been a slog: multiple checkpoints, surging crowds, panicked survivors moving with little regard for two small women trying to cross the decks. A few well-placed kicks, a detour through a maintenance shaft, and they'd made it.

  Jacob and the six other men waved them in the moment they arrived. They asked after Tara—who, ever the ray of gallows sunshine, grinned and answered, "Fine. Just tired."

  Kala pushed her sister down onto their shared mattress and dropped beside her, sitting at the edge with her hand locked around Tara's like a vice.

  "Hey," Tara murmured, rubbing her thumb along her twin's knuckles. "I'm okay. Really." She managed a half-smile. "Can't get rid of me with just one stabbing, you know."

  Kala snorted, her braid swaying as she shook her head. "Shut the hell up and get some rest," she said, voice rough. "I'll wake you when Mom gets here."

  "Thanks," Tara murmured, eyes already half-lidded, exhaustion dragging her down. Whatever else she meant to say slurred off into sleep.

  Kala let her sister rest.

  She kept busy around the hab block as the hours crawled by. Small things—errands, cleaning, stirring pots, checking on the perimeter—tasks too minor to matter, but they kept her body moving while her mind stayed circling the bed. She checked Tara's temperature, changed the compress on her forehead, roused her gently to take her meds when the time came.

  Nothing heroic. Nothing battlefield-worthy.

  But to Kala, it was the most important duty in the world.

  Four hours passed.

  Then the door opened with a soft hiss, its engraved warding runes gleaming in the low light. Her mother stepped through, exhaustion etched into every line of her face, her eyes dark with fatigue—but still, that iron strength held her spine straight. Still Elissa Brandt.

  Kala moved forward, arms already outstretched to hug her.

  Then the tech-priest stepped through behind her.

  She froze.

  She knew those arms.

  She had spent hours studying them when she thought no one noticed—watching the smooth slide of hard plating, wondering what they hid beneath, how strong they were, what they might do to a girl if they ever touched her in that way.

  Then her brain caught up to her gut.

  Rage bloomed, white-hot and nuclear in her throat.

  The helmet disengaged with a series of whisper-soft clicks—too quiet, too practiced, like it had done this a thousand times before. That shaggy, unkempt mop of blonde hair she'd once imagined running through with her fingers, pulling him down into a kiss he'd never asked for.

  Those eyes—impossibly blue, bright enough to punch holes in her breath. The kind of eyes that left knots in her stomach and questions in her throat.

  Her fist met his jaw with a thundercrack.

  The impact sang through her bones. She didn't feel the split in her knuckles, the sharp bloom of bruises, the blood that followed. She felt him. Felt her fist crash into a face she'd longed for.

  A face she'd trusted.

  Missed.

  A face she had fantasized about, damn him.

  A face she now wanted to break.

  She hated how good it felt to hit him—and how much it didn't help.

  "You bastard," she whispered, voice trembling—not from fear, but from the sheer magnitude of fury.

  -

  Rubbing his chin—feeling the subdermal armor reassert itself beneath the bruise from Kala's punch—Koron winced, more at the memory than the pain. He glanced sideways at Elissa, cheeks flushing under her stare: a look balanced perfectly between a glower and a smirk, equal parts mother and mischief.

  "…Should I leave her—?"

  "No."

  'No!'

  'No, you dolt!'

  The trio of voices collided in his skull like a malfunctioning vox burst—Sasha, Elly, and Elissa in perfect sync. He blinked, momentarily stunned.

  "Okay, can I get a reply that's not in reverb, please?"

  Elissa's voice cut in, smooth and level, with the patience of a woman used to managing chaos.

  'Ladies. My daughter. Let me have the podium, please.'

  'Oh, fine,' Sasha muttered. 'But I'm calling dibs on next.'

  Over the neural link, there was no emotional resonance—no true transfer of feeling—but he caught the shape of it anyway. Amusement folded in on itself. Worry beneath that. And beneath that, something harder: that unflinching steel Elissa had always worn like a second skin. Strength that bent but never broke.

  'You should go after her. Just… listen, alright?' She stepped forward, placing her hand over his chest. Her palm was warm through the suit's haptic relay, firm in a way that said she meant every word. 'She's hurting. More than she's ever let on.'

  He nodded, slow and silent. His fingers found hers and squeezed once—quiet gratitude—before letting go.

  Outside the doorway, Kala's footsteps were already fading down the corridor. She wasn't storming away, not quite—but each step had purpose. Tension. A rhythm that echoed fury, confusion, betrayal, all simmering beneath her composure. He'd seen her walk like that once—after Dusthaven burned. When everything she loved had been reduced to ash.

  And now, he realized, she looked at him the same way she'd looked at the wreckage.

  He swallowed the thought and stepped forward.

  At the threshold, he hesitated, turning back to look at Elissa. 'I'm surprised I'm not getting the "if you make her cry, you die" line.'

  Her smile held. Calm. Steady.

  'That's because I trust you.'

  The words hit harder than the punch had.

  He tried to answer, but his throat locked. So he nodded instead, and stepped into the hall—into the flickering glow of emergency lumen strips and the ghosts of everything left unsaid.

  -

  It wasn't hard to find her.

  The observation deck was nearly empty now—too many wounded, too many orders, too many broken systems and broken people for anyone to spare time on starlight.

  But Kala sat alone, a small silhouette framed by the grand curve of the viewing window. Beyond it, the starscape bled color and silence into the black—a billion suns burning unnoticed by a girl with war behind her eyes.

  The hatch hissed softly as Koron pushed it open. It squeaked—he let it. A gentle announcement, not a stealthy entrance.

  She didn't look.

  He stepped in, boots soft against the metal, the red of the Mechanicus robes fading from his frame, replaced by his usual gear—simple, worn, practical. His armor's lines reformed subtly at the seams, shifting from mimicry to authenticity. He had no reason to hide now.

  Reaching the edge of the bench, he glanced down.

  She hadn't moved. Knees pulled to her chest, arms wrapped tight. Defensive posture. Not against him—but against herself. Like if she unwrapped, it would all spill out.

  "Can I sit—"

  "No."

  The word cracked like a whip. Sharp, immediate. No room for misinterpretation.

  He paused.

  Then nodded, once, quietly—and instead of sitting beside her, activated his anti-grav plating, letting his weight drift just off the ground. It was nothing showy, just… space. Distance.

  But the moment his boots left the deck, her head snapped around.

  "Really?!" she barked, springing to her feet. Her voice cut sharper than a power knife. "Just gonna do that when I said no?!"

  He blinked, lowering his feet back to the floor. But she was already in motion, storming toward him, a tight ball of fury packed into five feet of of volcanic emotion.

  "Classic Koron!" she spat, jabbing a finger at his chest—his chest, nearly a foot above her eye line. "Just gotta float around, gotta be clever, gotta do your own thing like always!"

  She stepped right into his space, eyes blazing, posture daring him to flinch. He didn't. Not because he was unbothered—but because he couldn't look away.

  "You never ask! You just decide! Decide to walk off, decide to disappear, decide we don't get a say! Like we're just—just passengers on the ride that is your goddamn life!"

  He opened his mouth, then closed it. Because she wasn't done.

  "You didn't tell me. You didn't tell any of us. And you think I'm mad because you left? Because you lied?!" Her voice cracked, breath catching in her throat. "I'm mad because I trusted you. Because I thought… I thought I mattered."

  That last line landed like a punch.

  And Koron—six-foot-six of cybernetically perfected calm—suddenly felt two inches tall.

  Kala stood before him, breathing hard. Her eyes shimmered—not with tears, but with the threat of them. Rage was easier. Cleaner. Simpler.

  "I wanted to know you," she said, voice quieter now, brittle with restraint. "I wanted to understand. And you—"

  She stopped. Swallowed.

  "You made me feel like that meant something. Like I meant something." Her throat clenched. "Then you vanished. No word. No goodbye. Like I was just… scenery."

  He said nothing, only watching her shoulders tremble as she hugged herself tight, trying to hold in everything that was breaking loose.

  Several seconds passed. Then she looked up at him through a veil of crimson hair, voice sharp with the ache she couldn't smother.

  "Well? Got anything to say? Or are you just gonna stand there like a jackass?"

  Koron took a breath and reached for the one thing he did understand.

  "I have a computer in my head."

  She blinked. That was... not the direction she'd expected. "What?"

  "Let me explain," he said quickly. "I promise—it matters."

  Her jaw tightened, but she gave a single, clipped nod.

  "I've got a computer in my head. It helps me with everything—tracking logistics, project workflows, systems management. Stuff I could do alone, just… faster." A pause. "It also helps in combat."

  Something flickered behind her eyes—curiosity, hesitant but alive. He never talked like this. Never opened up. But here he was, peeling something back.

  "Combat processing means analyzing everything. Body language, balance, muscle tension, strength-to-mass ratios—a thousand variables all calculated to predict and counter an enemy before they even know what they're going to do."

  His voice stayed calm, steady, those glacier-blue eyes locked to her burning emeralds. "One part of that system is emotional mapping. I can read pain, anger, joy—every micro-expression, every twitch. Most people don't even know they're showing anything, but to me... it's a book."

  Her brow furrowed. "So you knew—?"

  He raised a hand, cutting her off with a slow shake of his head. "I can detect. I almost never do."

  "Why not?"

  "Because that's not life. That's not real. That's just... math. A riddle solved before it's even asked." He looked down, trying to shape the words right. "With people, I don't want the answer. I want to understand. I want it to mean something."

  She stared at him for a long moment, that answer sitting between them like something fragile.

  "I think I get that," she said at last. "But what does that have to do with—" she waved a hand in the air between them "—this?"

  "It means that everything I did with you and the others, it wasn't pre-planned. I didn't calculate the optimal route, I didn't pre-generate the perfect answers to questions I knew you would ask before you did." His hands rose up, the metal catching the candlelight. "It was real, from the stuff you liked to the stuff I messed up on, it was all real."

  Kala snorted. Not a laugh—too sharp for that. It cut out of her like a blade. "You want it to mean something," she repeated, voice low. "That's great. That's just great."

  She turned away, arms folded again. Not defensive—restraining. He could see it in the way her fingers dug into the fabric at her elbows, white-knuckled and desperate to hold.

  She'd held it all in. Since the day Dusthaven burned. Grief buried under duty. Rage diluted by errands. Her world had cracked—and she'd glued it back together with checklists and stubbornness.

  "You say you didn't want to cheat. That you wanted to understand things the right way." She glanced back at him, fire crackling in her eyes now. "You ever think maybe I wanted that too? That maybe I was trying to understand you the right way?"

  Her voice rose with the next words, brittle but steady, like glass under tension.

  "You just vanished, Koron. After everything. And I had to handle it all. Tara was a wreck, you know that? Mom was practically a ghost, and I could understand all of that, but it still hurt. Uprooted from our home, lives gone, so many friends dead, we had to adapt, we didn't have a choice."

  She'd cleaned blood off the hauler bulkhead herself. Watched others die with no one left to call family. Buried everything beneath movement and breath.

  No one had time to fall apart. So she never did.

  She took a step forward. Small. Controlled. Like the lash before the strike.

  "You left," she said, lower now, shaking her head. "You left. And the part that kills me?"

  Her hands clenched tighter on her sleeves. Her voice dipped. "I would've followed. Without question. But you didn't even ask."

  She shook her head, a bitter sound escaping her lips. "I kept hoping. Defending you. Telling myself you had a plan. But all this time, you were just… watching. Listening. Letting me think I was too stupid to matter in your perfect little algorithm."

  She didn't yell the last part. Didn't need to. Her voice dropped instead, low and tight. "I'm not a problem to solve, Koron."

  She stared up at him—so much smaller, but in that moment, heavier than any weight he'd ever lifted. "I'm not some line of code you can toggle off to keep your heart safe. I was here. I am here. And I deserved better than silence."

  He took a breath. Deep. Slow. Felt the cybernetic lungs expand and contract, pushing out the fire that wanted to rise. "You're right," he said. "I should've told you. All of you. Why I left. What I planned. The reasons—my rationale. I should've let you in."

  He paused, then took a step forward, voice quieter now, but iron at the core. "But let me ask you this: Would it have made you feel better?" He held her gaze. "Alright. Say it would have. Fair. But would it have kept you safe?"

  Her eyes narrowed. "I'm not some defenseless princess—"

  "Against the fucking Inquisition, you are." His words cracked the air, hard and sudden. "Against the Adeptus Mechanicus? The entire collective might of Mars? You are. Against the Angels—the ones wearing halos and smiling while they burn worlds—who are actively hunting me down right now?"

  He pointed to the deck. "You are."

  She didn't flinch. Anger flared in her eyes, but no rebuttal came. Because the truth in his words bit deep.

  "I would've gone with you anyway," she said. Quiet, defiant. "I would've stood at your side."

  "I know," he replied. And the grief in his voice hit like a blade drawn slow. "And you would've died for it."

  "You don't know that."

  "Yes, I do." His voice wasn't cruel, but it was absolute. "Those models I mentioned? The emotional mapping, the threat analysis, movement prediction? That's just it running in the background. Passive."

  He took a half-step forward. Not looming—just… there. More solid, more real than she wanted him to be.

  "That's me holding back. All the time. Every day." He tapped his temple with two fingers. "What do you think happens when I flip the switch?"

  She didn't answer. Didn't need to.

  "When I activate it, I stop guessing." His voice was flat now, clinical. "I know what you're going to do before you do it. I know how you'll move, breathe, blink. I can model your thoughts, project the outcome of a conversation before we've had it."

  His hands flexed, servos humming. "That's when its active. And I haven't used it. Not once. Not since I woke up. Not even when I fought the Necrons. Not when the ship was bombing Dusthaven. Not against the angel on the Hammer."

  A breath. A shrug. Something between shame and discipline.

  "I've been in passive mode this whole time. And I've still survived. We've survived. I chose not to activate it." He swallowed hard. "Because I didn't want to stop being human."

  He looked away, jaw tightening.

  "But in a moment like this? Between people?"

  He turned back to her, and there was something cracked behind those eyes—perfect, glacial, and unbearably tired.

  "If I'd told you I was leaving, really told you—if I had looked at you while I said it, with the processor running?" His voice caught. "I'd have seen the pain before it hit you. I'd have felt it like it was mine. And I wouldn't have gone."

  He let the words settle, heavy in the quiet.

  "And if I hadn't gone... you'd be dead, Kala. You, your sister, your mom, everyone on that ship. And that would've been on me."

  Kala's mouth opened, then closed.

  No comeback. No curse. No biting line.

  Just silence.

  She stared at him—really stared this time. Not at the height or the strength or the eyes that always gave too little away. But at the weight behind the words. At the restraint.

  At the quiet kind of love that chooses not to win.

  Her arms slowly lowered from where they'd crossed tight across her chest. She looked down. Her boots scuffed the deck. She drew in a shaky breath.

  "You didn't fight back," she murmured.

  It wasn't a question.

  He shook his head once. "I couldn't."

  Another pause. Her eyes flicked up, softer now, not dulled but different. "You didn't think I could handle the truth?"

  "I didn't want to risk that the truth would get you killed." His tone was gentle now, almost bitter. "You, your sister, your mother, everyone from the town... You're the only good left in a galaxy that chews up everything else."

  A beat passed between them. Longer than breath, shorter than memory.

  Kala took one step forward. Then another. Not charging. Just… walking. Tired. Weighted.

  She stopped in front of him, head just below his collarbone.

  And, with a brittle little voice, said:

  "You still could've written a damn note."

  He didn't answer. Just stepped forward and wrapped his arms around her, pulling her in tight—like she might vanish again if he let go too soon.

  She hugged him back with all her wiry strength… then pulled away just enough to grab his hands and gave them a tug toward the bench.

  "Sit," she said, firm but not unkind.

  "…Okay," he replied, clearly confused as he obeyed.

  She pointed.

  "Other side."

  He scooted over.

  Then she lay down, curling up and resting her head in his lap, arms tucked in, watching the stars burn silently beyond the glass.

  "I'm gonna take a nap now," she muttered. "And you better still be here when I wake up."

  Snorting softly, he reached down and took her hand in his.

  "Promise."

  Less than a minute later, she was out—curled like a kitten, softly snoring, exhaustion pulling her down just as it had her twin.

  Koron stayed.

  One hand lay still in hers. The other moved slowly through the tangled red strands of her hair, careful, thoughtful, as he stared out into the void.

  'So… we gonna talk about this?' Sasha's voice murmured through the neural link, soft as breath, like even she didn't want to risk waking Kala.

  'Nope.'

  '…I'm sorry what do you mean no?'

  'Sasha, you and I both know there is so much stuff going on that any sort of relationship isn't really in the cards. We're forty hours from having another flaming dumpster full of crises being dropped on us when the ships get here. More than likely, even with all our efforts to keep our presence to a minimum, word is going to get out and that manhunt we were ahead of is going to beeline it here. Everyone and everything on this ship is going to get put under a microscope, minds pried open, the whole nine yards-'

  '-And anyone close to you, or with knowledge of you, is going to be peeled open like a can of tuna, I know.' Sasha finished for him, a pulse of acknowledgment.

  'So let me guess,' Sasha said eventually, with a dry edge. 'Run? Hide?'

  'The Indomitable doesn't have a navigator, and our ship is still four months from completion, so that's a no go. Hiding in the fleet will be our best bet. Seventy ships, more than enough to hop around on if need be.'

  'And what about them?' A pulse of thought accompanied her question. Downward. Toward the weight in his lap. The hand in his. The quiet breath, warm against his armored thigh.

  '…I think its about time the Captain and I had a chat.'