27. Nyra
NYRA
Dust and ionized ozone burn my throat as I break into a dead sprint toward the auxiliary docking bay.
My lungs burn, each breath a sharp reminder of the mechanical drone buzzing through the floor plating of Virex Prime.
Every instinct I possess—the scrap-rat survivalism that kept me alive in the outer rim—commands me to flee.
I keep my eyes forward. Forward is the only direction that avoids the scrap-hauler’s net or the overseer's whip.
I focus entirely on the flickering emergency lights that bleed onto the cold, gray walls.
I take the seat inside. My hands shake as I rest them on the biological interface of the keypad.
I may have restricted flight clearances, but as my pulse hammers against the console, the shuttle's dormant systems catch the frequency of the Warlord's mark inside me.
The console flickers to life, interpreting my hijacked Sovereign biology as a valid pilot token.
A constant green light bathes my skin, and I feel the shuttle begin to power up, a powerful movement rising through my boot soles.
The internal systems hiss, cycling fresh oxygen into the cramped cabin.
K-Seven babbles a series of urgent binary pings, its small frame already drifting toward the shuttle's open hatch.
It waits for me, its logic circuits clearly prioritizing our escape.
"Nyra," K-Seven rasps, sounding more like a whirring radiator than a functional drone. "The shuttle's fuel cells are primed. Unit calculates a narrow departure window before the engagement zone becomes untenable."
Staring at the empty storage netting where my prep kit should perfectly sit, I drop my hand to check the kinetic sidearm still holstered at my hip, the only weight remaining and grounding me.
I should feel a rush of relief. I should feel the weight of this ghost ship lifting off my shoulders.
I should be thinking about the credits I’ll make from the salvage I managed to shove into my pockets.
Instead, a physical pressure slams into my chest. It’s a tether, heavy and undeniable, far more visceral than any shift in artificial gravity or a hull breach.
I grip the pilot’s seat, my knuckles turning a sharp, bloodless white.
A sudden, sharp image flashes behind my eyes, as vivid as a neural-link feed: Draevik.
I notice him in at the bridge, his ash-colored skin flushed with a dangerous, violet heat.
He stands tall; his eyes emanate a terrifying, hot red light.
He’s drumming with an intensity that warps the air around him, the ship’s very reality bending to the sheer force of his presence.
The mark.
Selra’s voice echoes in my head over the hum of the shuttle's engine.
'She's his anchor.' Everything Draevik had ever told me suggested a leash, a territorial imperative to keep his pet human in line.
But as I eyeball the ejection lever, Selra's taunt hits me like a concussive hit.
The tether pulls both ways. I transcend the role of a space-occupying prisoner.
He requires my presence to exist as a whole, stable being.
A memory surfaces, unbidden and sharp. I remember the way his violent hand tremors always stopped the moment my palm touched his chest. I remember the way the ship’s violet lights went from a frantic, dying strobe to a smooth, unwavering calm the second I walked into a room with him.
He’s been falling apart since I left the bridge.
While the mechanics evade my understanding, the truth shines clearly: his obsession runs far deeper than simple fixation.
He is biologically decaying without me. Whatever role I play for him, my absence is killing his tactical mind.
If I leave, he won't just be heartbroken—his systems will crash entirely.
"Why are you stationary? The shuttle is primed.
Departure window is narrowing. Additionally, Unit is detecting the Harrow on an independent drift vector—the docking clamps appear to have been released.
Sensors indicate its autopilot has already been engaged, moving it to a neutral holding pattern safely away from the engagement zone. "
I stare at the sensor feed on the Vesper-3's console in stunned silence, my hands freezing over the controls.
The numerical data confirms the impossible: the command hierarchy locking my ship simply ceases to exist anymore.
The realization hits me with staggering force, knocking the breath straight out of my lungs.
While I thought he just casually unlocked the doors, he instead deliberately dismantled his own absolute control.
For a Reaper Warlord, relinquishing a system override over something he claimed is an agonizing rejection of his deepest instincts, all just to ensure I had a safety net.
My ship, my only real home for so long, is drifting further into the black, totally independent and safe from the crossfire.
A hot tear slips down my cheek as the profound magnitude of Draevik's sacrifice finally sinks in.
He is facing down a scavenger fleet alone, prepared to burn with his vessel, but he made sure I could walk away clean.
Then I realize the truth. He's letting me go. The warlord who claimed I was his is opening the cage, entirely willing to break himself if it means I survive.
"No, leave it," I command, my heart constricting. "If Draevik set it to a safe holding pattern, it's safer there."
My hand hovers over the launch console. The path is open.
I could run, fly right out of this war zone, clear my debts, and disappear into the Fringe.
But staring at the empty space where Draevik should be, the truth anchors me.
I have a flawless escape route, but taking it means leaving him to die alone in the dark.
"I stay," I blurt out.
The certainty arrives organically, taking root as a bone-deep knowing rather than a logical deduction.
When he touched me in the stasis chamber, something clicked into place.
No archives explain it, no manuals cover it.
Walking away feels like cutting a live wire still carrying current both ways.
I've spent my whole life haunting the edges of the galaxy, drifting from station to station, but with him, I have a weight. I have a place.
K-Seven emits a low, mournful whir, its lenses dimming as it analyzes the shift in my biometrics.
"Seven, update the Harrow's autopilot," I order into the shuttle's short-range transmitter.
Now that Draevik has released the docking clamps and dropped his system lockout, my old command codes will work again.
It might still be a shot in the dark given the distance, but I need to ensure she doesn't drift back into the firing line.
I watch the sensor feed of my ship, fully accepting the goodbye.
"Tell her to stay dark and maintain distance.
If this ship goes nova, I want the Harrow safe. "
"Nyra, the window is closing," Seven warns. "Ten seconds to lock."
My gaze darts from the ejection lever to the dark void of my old life and finally back to the maintenance hatch. The mark bursts, a warm, golden thread in my mind that points straight to the bridge. It’s a physical pull, a magnetic attraction that makes every cell in my body oscillate.
"Cancel the launch," I command with a sudden, fierce edge.
I leap out of the Vesper-3 and touch down on Virex Prime’s steel-cold deck. If I leave— I stop. The reasons pile up behind my teeth—tactical, practical, and logical. But the truth is simpler than any of them, and it burns to say out loud. If I leave, I lose him. And I refuse to do that.
I choose this path because I’ve finally found something worth holding onto. The debt of waking him turns into a distant thought; this is about the thread that connects our very heartbeats.
It’s more than the mark. The pretense is already gone.
I want the sound of his voice when it drops low enough for me to feel through my ribs.
I want the weight of his hand at my neck.
I want that look he gives when I solve what he couldn’t—quiet, fierce pride he believes I miss.
I want to argue over fuel ratios and fall asleep to the steady sync of his hearts.
I want him. The mark has no place in this choice. All authority begins with me.
I stand on the deck, empty-handed and without my kit, but feeling a new kind of readiness.
The mission has changed. I'm something he needs.
Something I'm only starting to understand.
K-Seven hovers at my shoulder, its rattling frame settling into a determined series of clicks.
It follows me as I turn back, its lenses now glowing a persistent, loyal amber.
Beneath me, the metal flexes and moans as I push deeper into the guts of the ship.
Every second away from the shuttle feels like shedding a layer of armor I’ve worn for years.
My pulse hammers in my chest, a frantic convulsion syncing with the erratic rhythm of Virex Prime’s engines.
From the mark, the ship’s agitation rises, prickly heat tracing a path up my neck. It wants me back. It needs me back.