The crew mess hall smelled like dense bread crust and brewing coffee—a warmth that didn’t quite reach the bones but made the fatigue easier to ignore. The mess hall was dim as always. Cups clinked. Boots shuffled. John Drayton sat at one of the basalt long tables near the viewport with a folded envelope between his fingers. He turned it over once, twice, then id it ft. A thin slip of spice-sealed parchment peeked from within it. Inside sat the kind of luxury ticket one couldn’t afford if you spent a lifetime in the military and rose from private to Fleet Admiral. It was the kind of ticket the Gactic Council handed out with a wink and an unspoken ledger of a long list of favors owed.

  Samantha Crowe arrived like she always did—quiet and unannounced, always perfectly timed. Her dark suit was half-unzipped at the colr, sleeves rolled to her elbows, tablet tucked beneath one arm. Her expression said she’d been awake longer than him though she carried it better.

  “You wanted to talk?” she asked, and slid into the seat across from him.

  “Something like that.”

  He pushed the envelope across the table. She arched her brow. “Please don’t tell me this is another coded assassination dossier. I’m barely caffeinated.”

  “Worse. It’s a ticket. To a party.”

  Her fingers hesitated, then lifted the envelope and cracked the seal. The shimmer of the Graushorn insignia—emerald tendrils wrapped in gold—glinted briefly under the overhead light.

  Samantha gave a low whistle. “Feast of Graushorn? Didn’t peg you for high society, Arbiter.”

  “I’m not,” he said, tone ft.

  “She tucked the invitation back into the envelope with deliberate care. She looked up at him with something like real pleasure. “Well, I accept. Gdly. I’ve been meaning to get off this ship before the walls start bleeding diplomatic chatter. Even just a day or two to breathe something that isn’t recycled air.”

  “You’re finally going to rex?”

  Samantha smirked. “God, no. I pn to smile through a dozen meetings and forge soft agreements between sips of spiced brandy. I’ll finally have an excuse to wear some nice shoes into the office.”

  John’s fingers returned to the tabletop, drumming once, then stopped. “I spoke with Lord-Ka.”

  The name changed the temperature between them. Samantha’s eyes narrowed. “What did the Councilor want?”

  He leaned back, eyes hollow. “He wants me to do what I do best…but without a sidearm.”

  “He has a target?”

  “Thariel. One of his Elysian host bodies has been spotted on Graushorn.”

  The mess hall was nearly empty. A pair of Cortari soldiers sat across the room and whispered in mirrored tones. Somewhere behind the kitchen wall, the coffee machine hissed a new batch. John stared down his reflection on the tabletop. He didn’t look like an Arbiter. He looked tired.

  “I’ve been on missions like this before,” he said. “Where you’re not there to make friends, you’re there to find a face in the crowd and do what needs doing. No questions. No appuse. Just…get it done.”

  Samantha tilted her head, watching him.

  “I didn’t grow up rich,” John continued. “Didn’t go to prep academies on Mars or wine parties in orbitals around Neptune. I’m not one of them. Arbiter badge or not, I’m still the kid from Earth who used to watch space shuttles unch and told myself ‘I want to be one of them. I want to be a hero.’ If only I had known what that word meant. I’m no hero. I’m more like a janitor doing dirty work.”

  “This war is nasty and confusing.”

  He exhaled through his teeth, slow and deliberate.

  Samantha’s eyes gnced down at the ticket, then settled back on John. “So…will you be hunting?” “I’ll smile. Toast. Pretend like I belong.” John grabbed the ticket and slid it into his jacket pocket. “If Thariel is there, I’ll find him.” John’s eyes found Sam’s, sharp and focused. “If I have to drag Thariel’s host into a closet and choke him out with my bare hands, I will. If he’s there, I’ll remove him.”

  “I’ll do what I do best.” Fury stripped his tone and honed it. He already made peace with what needed to be done. “Kill,” he murmured, not looking at her now. “Kill. Kill. Kill.”

  Sam sat back, arms folded, her expression unreadable. She let the silence stretch. “Finish your coffee, John,” she said, standing. “You’re going to need your strength. High society doesn’t know what’s coming.”

  She walked away.

  John remained seated long after, alone at the basalt table. Outside the viewport, the Graushorn waited somewhere in the velvet dark, a pace-city for the gaxy’s elite built in the belly of a god-worm.

  He didn’t belong there.

  But neither did the man he pnned to kill.