Chapter 20
ROXY
The moment we punch through Kaerva’s atmospheric interference, the ship shudders like it’s coughing up rust and regret.
The viewports flicker with static, the stars dissolving into jagged lines before the surface breaks open underneath us — a planet stitched with metal and smog, scars and barricades, like someone tried to bury war under the dirt and it just wouldn’t stay dead.
My throat is dry. I can taste grit, not just in the air, but crawling up from my stomach and settling over my tongue like it’s claiming space it shouldn’t have.
“Brace for turbulence,” Vrok says, his voice low and steady through the comm.
I don’t brace. I just lean forward, gripping the arms of my seat, nails digging in, skin slick with a tension that’s been building since the last broadcast — since they started whispering my name like it was something that meant something.
Kaerva’s gravity claws at us as we descend — a slow, dragging pull that feels like the whole world is trying to snatch the ship out of the sky. Static shrieks through the speakers. Warnings flash in indifferent orange.
But the ride — the fall — is something else entirely.
I can feel it in the pit of my belly, the way my body sagging into the straps feels wired wrong. Like my instincts are shouting and my brain is choosing ignorance.
“Keep her steady,” Vrok mutters. “Wind shear’s bad.”
Wind shear. I don’t care what it’s called. It feels like the sky itself is trying to tear us limb from limb.
When we finally break through the interference, we’re rewarded with more turbulence, but at least now I can see the surface:
Kluzderfuvv — a town not much bigger than a speck on a godforsaken world, ringed with defenses cobbled together from shipping containers, salvage plates, and armed eyes that don’t stop watching.
Landing in Kluzderfuvv isn’t quiet.
It’s not supposed to be.
Metal grinds against metal. Fear snaps in the air like a switchblade. The townsfolk are armed, and they line the crude runway with rifles, shotguns, homemade spears with wrapped handles. Their faces aren’t just wary — they’re etched with stories I don’t know yet.
Dust motes dance in the air around us, illuminated by the harsh, flickering lights mounted to the landing platforms. The smell here is different from the asteroid hub — heavier, earthier, like hot dirt and sweat and diesel fumes, all mixed with that unmistakable scent of desperation.
When the ramp drops, the noise hits like a slap: shouts, murmurs, the way footsteps sound when every person in a crowd is trying not to look afraid.
And then I hear it.
My name.
Repeated.
Low at first, like a rumor on the wind, then louder like it’s being shouted into existence.
“The Butcher stands with us!”
“She’s real! She’s come!”
“Save us, Butcher!”
My heart stutters. Just for a second. But long enough that I feel it like a bruise.
Vrok’s beside me, arms crossed, stance rigid. He doesn’t make a move to disembark yet. Doesn’t say anything. Just watches the crowd with that unblinking gaze of his — the one that always feels like a measurement.
I take a breath — deep enough that I can taste the grit and sweat in my lungs — and step down first.
The ground here is loose gravel and dust, crunching under my boots like brittle bones. The lighting is harsh and unkind, casting long shadows that seem to move of their own accord.
“Wait,” Vrok says.
But I don’t. Not yet.
Because the first person to approach is not a guard… not a militia… but the mayor.
He’s a tall man with a voice that’s gone hoarse from shouting orders he knew might never be obeyed. His clothes are patched together like the town itself — sturdy fabric, reinforced edges, and a face lined by a thousand difficult mornings.
He stops three paces away from me, hands raised in a gesture that’s more supplication than welcome.
“You are… she?” he asks, voice winding and hopeful.
“Yes,” I say before I can swallow the words down the hollow in my throat.
He pauses, eyes dropping to my chest, then right back up to my face — like he’s trying to verify that I am flesh and blood and not a legend summoned by prayer.
“The Butcher,” he breathes. “We never thought—”
He breaks off. His eyes brim with weight I don’t have words for yet.
“You heard the reports?” I ask, scanning the armed townsfolk who edge closer, cautious but reverent.
“Everyone heard,” the mayor says. “They say you ended a massacre without a single life lost. They say you stopped a boarding crew with nothing but phantoms. They say you are death made manifest.”
The words land like blunt instruments.
I glance over my shoulder and see Vrok just standing there — quiet, observant — letting the weight of what I did hang in the air a little longer than anyone should be allowed.
The mayor’s voice cracks.
“Please,” he says. “Our people… Large Marj’s forces have taken our kin. Public executions. Taken them before our eyes. Made us watch. Said it was justice. Said it was performance. But you… maybe you can—”
He doesn’t finish.
Because he doesn’t need to.
I understand.
I feel it like a burn beneath my ribs — a sharp, hot ache that’s not fear. Not exactly.
It’s responsibility.
Heavy. Immediate.
The expectation here doesn’t feel like hope. It feels like a demand — and demands have consequences.
I swallow. Hard.
I look at Vrok.
His jaw is tight. His eyes are—calculating, but something in them softens ever so slightly when they land on me.
“You want help,” I say to the mayor.
“Yes,” he chokes out. “But not just help — liberation. Resistance. Hope.”
I take a breath so deep I feel the grit scrape against the back of my throat. The air tastes like hot dirt and desperation and the metallic edge of fear.
“Marj didn’t just execute your people,” I say, not even sure who I’m convincing — him, the crowd, or myself. “She made it a spectacle. She wanted you broken before you could organize. She wanted you afraid.”
“It worked,” someone mutters from behind.
I turn and see faces — men and women with eyes like kindling, lit by something fierce and brittle.
I meet their gaze.
“We’re not here to be a legend,” I say. “We’re here to be a threat. And if you want to resist Marj, you’ll need more than murmurs and fear.”
The mayor nods, swallowing. “We do.”
I glance at Vrok. He doesn’t interrupt. He doesn’t step forward. He simply watches — measured, quiet, like he’s still seeing me with new eyes.
“I’ll help,” I say.
Damn the risk. Damn the shadows in my own mind whispering in old panic tongues. Because right now, this place… these people… they need something I can be.
“Yes,” I repeat. “I’ll help you resist.”
A collective exhale ripples through the gathered townsfolk — sagging shoulders, nodding heads, eyes bright with something that feels dangerously close to hope.
The mayor reaches out, gripping my forearm — just once — and it’s enough to make my breath stutter.
“You don’t need to be her,” he says. “Just be enough.”
I force a smile.
I think about Vrok, watching us both, unblinking and unreadable.
And I realize something:
He isn’t calculating who I’m pretending to be.
He’s calculating who I’ve actually become.
And that, maybe more than any legend ever whispered into being… is the part that changes everything.