Page 227 of Reaper Said Mine

“Some captains will call it surrender.”

“Some captains are fools who confuse territory with people.”

Skahar studies me with something heavy in his old gaze. “You would give up ground you bled to claim.”

“I bled to build something more than ground.”

“And if the Combine takes the holds?”

“Then they take walls, scrap, and bad air. If I keep civilians there to prove I own the walls, then I become another bastard feeding people to symbols.”

The words settle between us.

Skahar’s mouth moves, not quite into a smile, not quite away from grief.

“There,” he says softly. “That sounds like a ruler.”

I do not know whether the words comfort me.

Perhaps they are not meant to.

I turn to Krell. “Draft the evacuation order. Civilian priority absolute. Military assets cover withdrawal. No captain may refuse dependents seeking transfer. Any clan that argues with the order argues with me in person.”

Krell straightens. “Yes, lord.”

“Vakka, shift defensive planning around civilian concentration points, not salvage value. Theryki gets evacuation corridor coordinates but no internal shelter architecture beyond what emergency transport requires.”

Vakka nods. “Gladly.”

“Skahar.”

The old Reaper lifts his chin.

“You will speak to the captains before I do. Tell them the order is mine. Tell them I expect obedience. Tell them if they need tradition to swallow it, remind them that Reapers carry their home in their people, not in metal bolted to dead rocks.”

His cloudy eye gleams.

“That is almost wise.”

“I am improving under duress.”

“Do not become smug. It would spoil the miracle.”

I almost laugh, but exhaustion catches the sound and turns it into a rough breath.

My compad vibrates.

Ursa’s message arrives delayed by war, distance, and whatever gods enjoy irony.

Public pressure rising. Your restraint matters. Every civilian you protect makes their lies harder to sell. I know it costs you. I see it.

I read it twice.

My chest tightens around the bond.

She is not here, yet somehow she reaches the part of me that nearly forgot why holding back can be fiercer than striking.

I type with hands still dirty from Sector Twelve’s door.