7. Ursa #3
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.”
“And if Rikka smiles at you, check whether the dish is still alive.”
“That feels important.”
“It is.”
We start down the corridor toward the lifts.
The station lights seem warmer tonight, or maybe I am noticing them differently because I know where they lead.
Two Reaper warriors pass us heading the opposite way, both dressed in ceremonial armor.
One gives me a quick assessing look, then says something to Vesk in Reaper dialect that my translator renders as small scholar and walks to the sharp table.
Vesk answers without looking back, Sharp table may learn manners.
I glance up at him. “Did your translator just make you sound poetic?”
“No.”
“So you chose that?”
“Do not become smug before dinner. It attracts punishment.”
The lift doors open, and heat rolls faintly from somewhere below, carrying smoke, spice, metal, and the copper warning of blood.
I step inside anyway.
As the lift descends toward the Blood Hall, I review every note, every correction, every insult, every story I gathered across the station.
I think of Professor Lorr telling me not to perform courage.
I think of Mara’s maps, Salla’s son in school, Hakk’s hungry ship, and the children learning feast songs with the worst verses removed.
I think of all the people who told me Gnash was dangerous without ever suggesting he was simple.
The doors open to a corridor lined with banners.
Sound spills toward us: deep voices, laughter, clattering dishes, chains moving overhead, and the rising roar of a room filling with people who expect outsiders to misunderstand them.
Vesk steps out first, then turns to look down at me.
“Last chance to invent a medical condition,” he says.
I look past him toward the Blood Hall entrance, where firelight flickers across black metal and shadows move like something alive.
“No,” I say. “I came here to learn the language.”
His eyes hold mine for a moment, and then he nods once.
Together, we walk toward the feast.