Page 68 of Reaper Said Mine

Not for me.

Not for the girl behind the compad.

Not for the woman who came here to ask questions.

I place both hands on the table and stand fully.

“If you want to speak with me,” I say, my voice carrying farther than I expect, “you can ask.”

The silence that follows is so complete I hear one of the shell-creatures click inside a covered basin.

Then Skahar laughs.

It starts low and rough from the high table, the sound of age, disbelief, and absolute delight dragging itself out of his chest. Rikka joins next, pounding the table with one fist. Vesk exhales as if someone has released a docking clamp from his spine. A few Reapers begin to cheer, then more, until the Blood Hall erupts again, louder than before, wilder, because apparently refusing a warlord correctly is another kind of ritual success.

Gnash does not laugh.

His eyes burn into mine with an intensity that steals the edges from the room.

Then he inclines his head.

Not much.

Enough.

“Ursa Ramone,” he says, and my name in his mouth feels like a door opening somewhere dangerous. “Will you come here?”

I should think.

I should calculate.

I should remember every person watching, every political consequence, every camera, every predator in the hall waiting to turn this into leverage. I do remember all of that. I remember it as I step away from the bench, as Rikka releases my elbow, as Vesk moves aside, as the Reapers thunder approval around me and the diplomats discover that the game they came to play has changed without asking permission.

I walk toward it. Every step carries me through heat, smoke, blood, and the gaze of a room that will never again pretend I am only another reporter. His eyes never leave mine.

By the time I reach the open space before the high table, I know with a certainty deeper than fear that the interview I came for is no longer the most dangerous thing I will get from him.

CHAPTER 10

GNASH

The Blood Hall detonates into noise the instant the words leave my mouth.

"My jalshagar."

The declaration crashes through the chamber harder than any threat I have delivered all year. Warriors surge to their feet, hammering fists against tables hard enough to rattle cups and plates. Several elders begin shouting blessings over one another so loudly that nobody can understand a single word. The musicians abandon whatever ceremonial progression they had been attempting and simply join the uproar. Firelight dances across armor, bone spurs, raised blades, and grinning faces while the sound rolls through the hall in wave after wave.

Most of it barely registers.

Ursa stands below the high table with her green eyes fixed on mine, and the bond is tearing through every wall I have spent a lifetime building. Her emotions strike me with startling clarity. I feel her shock, her determination, and her fear, but beneath all of them lies something stronger. She refuses to surrender to any of those feelings, and that stubborn resilience reaches me as clearly as everything else.

The connection does not feel like obedience. It feels like awareness. Her emotions crash against mine while my own answer in kind, creating a dizzying exchange that leaves me briefly understanding why ancient Ishani records described jalshagar bonds as forces capable of surviving natural disasters.

Across the high table, Gobold looks like somebody has informed him the station is secretly alive.

"You have got to be kidding me."

Wilcox drags one hand down her face.