Page 190 of Reaper Said Mine

I hate her in that moment because she is right.

I hate the trap because it gives her rightness teeth.

I look at the holo. Another hit rocks the damaged Reaper ship. The feed judders. Radiation distorts the image, turning the debris field into a smear of light and static. Men and women under my protection are fighting with failing shields because I cannot put every ship everywhere at once.

“Send them,” I say.

Skahar closes his eye.

Theryki does not smile. She is too skilled for that. She lifts her compad and issues quiet orders in Coalition military cant, each word precise enough to cut cloth.

Skahar steps close to me while the room erupts around us. “You just opened a door.”

“I know.”

“Doors used by armies rarely close because you ask politely.”

“I know that too.”

“Do you?” His voice drops, old and rough. “Because I remember a boy who starved behind doors other people locked. I remember him swearing that no one would ever decide whether his people ate, fled, fought, or died. I remember him becoming a man who took this station because dependence tasted like rot in his mouth.”

The words strike harder than I want to allow.

I turn on him, keeping my voice low enough that the room cannot feed on it. “Do you suggest I let those crews die?”

“I suggest you understand the price before someone else writes it in your blood.”

My anger searches for an answer and finds none fit to speak. Skahar has never cared about comfort. That is why I keep him near. Loyal fools warm the room while wise bastards keep you from burning in it.

The tactical feed shifts as Coalition response craft appear from the edge of the system, sleek and bright against the radiation smear. They move fast. Too fast for purely diplomatic escort. They were ready, then. Waiting close enough to matter. Waiting for the question to become unavoidable.

I hear Ursa again.

What if his job was making sure negotiations failed?

My own actions close around me like a fist.

I killed Zune because he threatened what is mine. Because he spoke of removing Ursa as if she were cargo, obstacle, inconvenience. Because my rage walked faster than my judgment, and every old wound in me mistook his face for the Combine itself.

Now fleets move. Outer holds burn. Coalition ships enter my defensive web by invitation, and my warriors watch them save Reaper lives.

A trap does not need chains if it can make you choose the cage.

Vakka calls out, “Coalition fighters have engaged. Attackers are breaking formation.”

Krell adds, “Our damaged vessel is venting atmosphere from two compartments. Medical retrieval inbound.”

“Tell the crew to hold,” I say. “Tell them their lord sees them.”

Krell’s voice softens as he relays the message. Across the pit, warriors listen without pretending they are not listening. Reapers do not like tender words where others can hear them. We prefer threats, jokes, insults, and songs with enough violence in them to hide the ache. Yet every one of us knows what it means to be seen when the dark tries to swallow you.

Theryki finishes her transmission and turns back to me. “Your people may survive this engagement because you accepted help.”

“My people may face the next engagement because help became easy to offer.”

She studies me with something almost like respect. “Then perhaps you are learning the shape of rule.”

Skahar snorts. “Rule is what people call drowning when the water wears a crown.”