Page 208 of Reaper Said Mine

I glance at him. “You enjoy sounding wise when I am too tired to argue.”

“I enjoy many things. At my age, one must collect pleasures before death grows impatient.”

The corner of my mouth moves. It does not become a smile, but Skahar sees the attempt and accepts it with the generosity of a bastard.

My compad vibrates.

Ursa’s delayed message appears.

Independent outlet preparing first packet. Gail pushing closed session. Dawson tried to bury me, failed. I need more proof tying Combine aggression to fabricated distress calls. Stay alive long enough for me to be annoying in person.

The bond warms through the ache in my chest.

I read her words twice.

Then a third time.

Skahar pretends not to watch.

“Tell her,” he says.

“Tell her what?”

“That you are frightened.”

I twitch a snarl. “Do you wish to die tonight?”

“I have wished to die many nights. You keep giving me reasons to postpone.”

I look back at the message. My thumb hovers over the reply field.

Reapers do not write fear easily. We dress it in threats, anger, jokes, orders, and touch. We make songs from grief because speaking plainly might leave the wound visible. Yet Ursa has never mistaken armor for honesty, and distance has already put enough metal between us.

I type slowly.

Rekk was hit. Thirty-nine dead, eleven children. Coalition support saved others. I am accepting deeper coordination because refusing would kill more people. I must find a way to keep every door closed and every child breathing.

I stop there for a long moment.

Then I add the part that costs more.

The revenge feels smaller tonight.

I send it before pride can claw the words back.

The message vanishes into the relay.

Outside the viewport, the Badlands glow with cold, violent beauty. My enemies move through them. My allies move through them. My people hide within them, fight within them, die within them, and wait for me to become something strong enough to deserve the trust they have placed in my hands.

Once, I thought that meant becoming terrifying.

Tonight, with dead children on my lists and Coalition ships inside my borders, I begin to understand that terror is easy.

Building something that survives terror is harder.

I turn from the viewport and walk back toward the command table, where the map is still red, the choices are still poisoned, and my people are still alive enough to need me.

CHAPTER 27