Toward Tyrok.
Toward me.
I stand one step behind him and half a step to his left, exactly where tradition says a taken thing should stand, visible enough to mark his possession, silent enough not to interrupt the authority radiating from his body. The collar at my throat is warm from my skin, its weight familiar now in the worstpossible way. I have spent too much of my life learning how objects become symbols when enough people agree to pretend they mean something larger than metal, law, contract, or cruelty.
Tyrok’s voice carries through the chamber, low and controlled. “The old doctrine made us feared. It did not make us secure.”
A ripple passes through the gathered Reapers.
Vihl stands near the base of the dais with his arms folded, his expression sharpened into something between warning and amusement. Several of the older captains do not look amused at all. Their bone spurs catch the overhead light as they shift, and the hard angles of their faces make their disapproval look carved rather than felt.
Captain Rhug steps forward first, because of course he does. He is broad even by Reaper standards, scarred across one side of his jaw, with old raid-badges wired into the plates of his shoulder armor. He has hated this since the first whisper of it crossed the ship.
“And what replaces it?” Rhug demands. “Trade ledgers? Human counsel? Pretty speeches about restraint?”
Several warriors grunt approval.
Tyrok does not move. “Discipline replaces waste.”
Rhug’s eyes cut to me. “Is that what she calls it?”
The chamber tightens around the pronoun.
She.
Not Stacy. Not strategist. Not partner. Not even human.
She.
I feel Tyrok’s attention shift, not visibly, not enough for anyone else to read unless they know him the way I do now. His shoulders remain level. His hands stay relaxed at his sides. His gaze remains on Rhug.
But I feel the question in the air between us.
Do you want me to answer?
My fingers rise to the collar before I let myself think too long about it.
The metal is smooth beneath my touch, cool at the edges, warm where it rests against my pulse. Around the chamber, the murmurs thin into silence. Someone inhales sharply. Someone else mutters a word in a language I only half understand, but the tone translates clearly enough.
Don’t.
I step forward.
Not behind Tyrok now.
Beside him.
The movement is small. The reaction is not.
The clan sees it happen, and the room shifts as if gravity itself has been offended. I can feel hundreds of eyes land on me with the weight of accusation, curiosity, disbelief, and something more fragile underneath it all. Hope, maybe, though no one here would call it that out loud without choking on the word.
Tyrok turns his head just enough to look at me.
I meet his eyes.
He does not stop me.
That matters.
