Page 54 of Reaper Said Mine

“Good to know.”

“You also insulted him well.”

“That means a lot coming from station security.”

“I am not complimenting you. I am assessing your chances of surviving dinner without damaging my patience.”

“And?”

He looks toward the far end of the market, where workers are hanging fresh banners that point toward the Blood Hall. “Improved.”

The rest of the day becomes preparation in motion. I interview one of the school instructors about children learning feast songs without the more violent verses. I speak with an elderly Reaper woman who remembers three captains settling disputes at a feast by competing to eat a venomous swamp-beast, only to have the cook declare them all idiots and make them pay for the wasted dish. I review footage of diplomatic feasts where outsiders survived with dignity by asking respectful questions, and footage where outsiders failed because they mistook disgust for moral superiority.

The pattern becomes clear enough that I stop being afraid of the gore and start being afraid of missing the meaning.

That is useful fear. It sharpens instead of shrinking.

Near the end of the station afternoon, I return to my lodging unit and stand before the tiny mirror mounted above the hygiene sink. My face looks tired, my green eyes a shade too bright from too much research and too little sleep. My red hair refuses smoothness, so I pull it back tightly enough to stay out of my face and secure it with two pins. The clothing question takes longer. I own nothing appropriate for a Reaper ceremonial dinner because, shockingly, IHC-Now did not issue a wardrobe packet labeled possible blood exposure. In the end, I choose dark practical trousers, boots with grip soles, and a fitted black jacket with reinforced seams. I look like a reporter walking into a dangerous room on purpose.

That is close enough.

My compad chirps.

Theryki’s message appears without greeting.

A reminder, Ms. Ramone: the Blood Feast rewards composure, not bravado. I trust you know the difference.

I read the sentence twice, then answer.

I do.

Her response arrives almost immediately.

How promising.

I slip the compad into my jacket and sit on the edge of the bed for a moment, listening to the station around me. Somewhere beyond the walls, cargo lifts move along their rails. Water hisses through pipes. A distant shout rises, then dissolves into laughter. Guyver Station does not feel like a den anymore, and that frightens me in ways the first day did not. Dens can be exposed. Myths can be punctured. Homes are harder. Homes mean people. People mean stakes.

If I succeed tonight, I may finally get Gnash to look at me.

If I fail, I will still have learned more than every correspondent who came here prepared only to despise what they did not understand.

The door chime sounds before I can sink any deeper into that thought.

When it opens, Vesk stands in the corridor wearing formal armor instead of his usual security harness. The plates are matte black, etched along the edges with old Reaper glyphs, and the sight of him dressed for ceremony rather than patrol makes the evening ahead feel suddenly real.

He looks at my clothes, my pinned hair, my boots, and the compad secured discreetly inside my jacket.

“You will do,” he says.

“Careful. That almost sounded like encouragement.”

“It was a threat against embarrassment.”

“Noted.”

He steps aside to let me into the corridor. “Remember what I told you. Watch before acting. Accept only what is offered. Do not grab a shared blade. Do not let fear make you cruel to the food. If you cannot eat something, decline without insult.”

“I remember.”