Victory tastes like ash in my mouth.
“You want to talk about duty?” I ask. “Reputation? Honor? Fine. Maybe those things mean more to you than people do.”
That lands.
Hard.
She doesn’t speak. Doesn’t blink.
Just turns on her heel and walks.
I don’t follow.
Because I’ve already crossed too many lines today.
That night, I walk past her quarters.
I don’t knock.
I don’t even slow down.
But I look.
At the porch we painted. The one she rolled her eyes at and let me fix anyway. The lines are still visible—brush strokes, uneven in places, a shade too dark.
She never bothered to redo it.
The light inside is on.
I don’t need to see her to know she’s awake.
I stand there a long time, hands shoved into my jacket pockets, heart beating like I’m still in the cockpit pulling a six-G dive.
Then I turn and walk away.
CHAPTER 18
NOVA
The hall feels colder today.
The kind of cold that isn't about temperature but presence—like the absence of something warm you didn't know you'd miss until it’s gone.
Every footstep I take echoes too loud. My boots click against polished steel as I move through corridors I’ve walked a thousand times. But today, the walls feel narrower. The ceiling lower. Like the building itself knows what’s about to happen.
Final rankings for the First Ray seat are due by 1600 hours.
Trozius’s message came in just after dawn. No pleasantries. Just a time, a location, and a directive.
“Your input on Kazimir and Yoris. No room for vagueness this time.”
I should be prepared. I’ve been compiling these files for weeks. Hours of footage. Metrics. Psychological overlays. Tactical breakdowns. Both cadets are exemplary.
But only one feels like fire in the sky.
I step into the evaluation hall and the door seals behind me with a quiet hiss. Screens bloom to life on either side of the room, casting shifting glows across the walls like constellations rearranging themselves.
Kaz. Yoris.
