Page 95 of Reaper Said Mine

His eyes remain on me one heartbeat longer than they should. Theryki notices. Of course she notices. Her gaze slides between us like a blade testing a seam.

“Perhaps,” Theryki says softly, “we should acknowledge that all present understand the cost of war. Some more intimately than others.”

The room chills around me despite the warm vents.

She has done it beautifully. She has not named Horus IV. She has not said my grief aloud. She has simply invited everyone to remember that I am here, that Gnash reacts to me, and that emotion is now another negotiator at the table.

I smile before Gnash can answer.

“Ambassador, if you would like to reference my childhood trauma as a rhetorical bridge, I’m going to need you to be less coy about it.”

An aide inhales too sharply.

Theryki’s golden eyes settle on me. “I intended no offense.”

“Yes, that’s usually why people use implication. It gives them somewhere to retreat.”

Wilcox looks down at her compad, but I can tell she is listening hard now. Gobold stares at me with something that may be grudging interest. Gnash remains very still, and Skahar looks like he is enjoying himself so much he may ascend.

Theryki’s expression does not change, but the room feels her recalibrate. “You are unusually direct for a journalist.”

“I get that from surviving indirect people.”

“A useful skill.”

“So is recognizing when someone changes the emotional temperature of a room to steer the next vote.”

Gobold grunts. “Hah.”

Theryki gives him a cool glance, then returns to me. “And what vote do you imagine I am steering, Ms. Ramone?”

“The one where Lord Gnash becomes too personally defensive to question your administrative clauses because everyone is suddenly discussing the moral necessity of preventing war.”

Theryki’s composure thins enough to show the muscle beneath. “You overestimate your relevance.”

“No,” I say. “I’m measuring yours.”

Silence closes over the table, heavy and electric. My pulse thuds in my throat. My palms are damp against the compad. I have just directly challenged one of the most dangerous negotiators in Coalition service while standing on a Reaper station beside the warlord who publicly declared me his soulmate. This is probably not what journalism schools recommend under the ethics module titled Maintaining Observer Distance.

Gnash speaks into the quiet. “Continue, Ambassador.”

His tone is mild.

It is also final.

Theryki inclines her head. “Of course.”

The session moves on, but the shape of it has changed. Theryki becomes more careful. Gobold becomes louder, which I suspect is his version of careful. Wilcox asks sharper questions about jurisdiction and civilian movement. Gnash says less than anyone, but when he does speak, the room arranges itself around his words.

I watch.

That is what I do best. I watch who interrupts whom. I watch which aides exchange glances when supply corridors come up. I watch Theryki avoid direct discussion of emergency defense access while repeatedly embedding the concept into other clauses. I watch Gobold reject every civilian oversight mechanism while pretending his objections are about stability. I watch Wilcox push for language protecting Earth merchant access, not because she trusts Gnash, but because she distrusts everyone else enough to prefer written limits.

By the time the session breaks, my notes look like a conspiracy board had a nervous breakdown.

Gnash rises, and the room rises with him.

“We resume tomorrow,” he says. “All revised language will be submitted through station legal review before night cycle.”