Page 125 of Reaper Said Mine

The room hears.

Theryki’s eyes sharpen. Gobold stops arguing mid-word. Wilcox turns pale beneath her controlled expression.

Vakka continues. “But the trigger relay is Coalition manufacture, and the casing insulation came from an Alliance military supplier.”

Every faction in the chamber goes silent for a different reason.

Ursa lowers the compad slowly. “That’s not sloppy.”

“No,” I say. “That is deliberate.”

Skahar’s voice is soft as dust over bones. “Someone wants every hand on the knife.”

Smoke curls from the ruined wall. The citrus stink has burned away, replaced by hot metal, scorched insulation, and fear. Around us, guards hold delegates in place while the first pieces of the attack begin forming a picture too perfect to trust. Combine money. Coalition relay components. Alliance casing. A dead or missing worker. A seating chart request. A pulse meant to kill Theryki and possibly catch Ursa as collateral.

Or perhaps collateral was never collateral.

I look at Ursa’s blood again.

My fury becomes very calm.

“Medical,” I say.

She opens her mouth.

“Now.”

Something in my voice stops even her for one breath. Then her eyes soften, not in surrender, but in understanding. She lets the medic help her stand. I stay close enough to catch her if her knees fail, and when she sways once, my hand settles at her back before thought can interfere.

“I can walk,” she says.

“I know.”

“You’re still hovering.”

“Yes.”

“That’s going to get annoying.”

“I look forward to your complaints.”

Her mouth curves despite the blood and smoke. “You would.”

I escort her toward the door while Vakka locks down the chamber and Skahar begins asking questions in that mild old voice that makes guilty people imagine mercy before he removes it from the room. Behind us, diplomats begin accusing one another with eyes before their mouths dare catch up.

At the threshold, Ursa pauses and looks back at the wreckage.

“This was meant to collapse the talks,” she says.

“Yes.”

“And force you to react.”

“Yes.”

Her gaze lifts to mine. “Then we don’t give them the reaction they bought.”

I look at the woman beside me, injured and unbowed, and the protective rage in me bends around her words. It does not disappear. It never will. But it takes shape. Direction. Purpose.