I unfold it again, even though I know every word by heart.
Don’t break anything you can’t rebuild.
I stare at it for a long time.
Then I crumple it in my fist until it’s just paper and regret.
It lands in the corner with a soft, defeated sound.
I sink onto the edge of my bunk, elbows on my knees, staring at nothing.
Somewhere outside, the engines rumble as another squadron lifts off.
It’s Swan’s unit tonight. I can tell by the timing. The rhythm.
I should be proud of him. I am, in some quiet way. He’s steady, loyal, decent. The kind of pilot who’ll probably outlive the rest of us.
But right now, I just feel hollow.
Because I can’t shake the feeling that everything I’ve been flying toward—Nova, the Ray, all of it—was never meant to land.
CHAPTER 20
NOVA
Tower control smells like copper and ionized dust. Too clean. Too artificial. The kind of smell that clings to your lungs long after you’ve left, like it's trying to brand you.
The room is quiet—too quiet for what they’ve just told me.
I sit in the corner, not moving. Not blinking. Just letting the weight settle.
One-way.
Those two words loop in my head like a stuck comm signal.
No evac. No refuel window. No second chances.
It’s not a mission. It’s a funeral with a call sign.
The target: a Coalition factory satellite tucked so deep in red-zone space it might as well be on the other side of the void. High-risk, high-yield. Eliminate the supply chain, shorten the war by months—maybe years. The kind of move they’ll write songs about.
If it works.
If someone survives long enough to tell it.
Trozius didn’t flinch when he said it.
“The best always pay the price.”
Like it’s noble.
Like it's fair.
I wanted to throw something. A datapad. A chair. My goddamn rank bar.
But I didn’t.
Because I’m still the one in uniform. Still the one with orders to follow and cadets to train and feelings I have no business letting dictate anything.
