Page 141 of Reaper Said Mine

My temper rises, and with it comes fear wearing armor. “You were nearly killed.”

Her expression gentles, which only makes the anger more difficult to hold. “I remember.”

“I remember more loudly.”

“I know.”

The room’s machines hum. Outside the viewport, lightning opens and closes inside distant clouds. Ursa steps closer until she stands directly in front of me, small enough that the sight of her defiance should be absurd and strong enough that no one who knows her would dare laugh.

“Listen to me,” she says. “If I hide every time they use me, they control my movements. If you hide me every time they threaten me, they control yours. That does not mean we get reckless. It means we choose when to be seen.”

Skahar makes a low approving sound.

I glare at him without looking away from Ursa. “Do not enjoy this.”

“I am too old to refuse pleasure when it comes limping by.”

Ursa’s mouth twitches, then firms again. “We go to the gallery. We control what we can. No public declarations. No letting Theryki bait either of us into defensiveness. No pretending I’m just another reporter if someone asks the obvious, but no giving them a performance either.”

I consider her words while every instinct in me demands the simpler answer of closed doors and armed corridors. The simple answer is often the worst one. Ursa keeps teaching me that in ways I both resent and crave.

Vakka studies the rumor map. “Security can control entry, sweep the gallery, and put plain-clothes watchers in the service corridor. No food unless Narra prepares it herself.”

Ursa looks at her. “Narra does diplomatic catering?”

“Narra does whatever she decides is necessary,” Vakka says. “We mostly try not to stand in the way.”

I turn to Skahar. “Your view?”

“My view is that you are both doomed to be difficult, and our enemies will underestimate how useful that is if we let them.” He steps closer, implant eye whirring softly. “Go. Be seen. Let Theryki learn that the bond has made you more attentive, not less. Let the gossipers choke on a relationship that does not fit their little cages.”

Ursa looks up at me. “That’s actually good advice.”

“He has moments.”

“I have centuries,” Skahar says. “You have moments.”

Vakka closes the projection. “I will arrange security.”

“Quietly,” I say.

She snorts. “No, lord, I planned to announce every position through the market while juggling knives.”

“You have done stranger things.”

“For morale.”

When she leaves, Skahar follows more slowly. At the door, he pauses and looks back at me. The mockery fades from his face, and what remains is old, worn, and deeply serious.

“They will come for her,” he says. “Not all at once. Not always with blades. You know that.”

“Yes.”

“And they will come for the parts of you she has woken.”

“I know.”

“No,” he says softly. “You are beginning to know. That is different.”