Chapter 15
FREYA
The ache in my muscles pulses like a slow drum — hip bones, thighs, shoulders, even my fingers tingle with aftershock.
I wake in the bunk before the alarm, goose-flesh crawling where the sheets rub against skin.
I roll over, pull the thin blanket tighter, and for a moment I feel… powerful. Not just alive. Strong. Real.
I trace the line of a bruise forming beneath my ribs — the one from when I knocked him off balance, and he laughed while blood slid over his lip. I remember the heat of our breath, the sting of bone-plate sliding past skin, the way his chest rose and fell under his own armor.
I sit up. Push the sheets away. I stand — slow, steady, aware of every fiber, every joint, every scar I’m remaking. I stretch — tendons pulling, the distant hiss of the ship’s life-support the only sound besides my own breath.
When I walk out into the corridor, my shoulders are straight. I don’t look at the floor, don’t shrink under the glances. I walk.
The air smells of recycled metal and stale coffee from the mess hall just ahead. I carry a mop to start my shift, but the instrument feels lighter than usual — as if the dust I sweep up holds less weight than the burden in my bones.
Vakutan officers pass me — tall, imposing, sharp eyes flicker across me — but they don’t turn away. Not now. Their stares are balanced: recognition. A shift. Not quite respect. But no dismissal either. That’s new. A ripple, subtle.
I chalk it up to training. To the cloak. To the fact that now I move like I own the air I breathe. Maybe.
But inside — inside my head — the whispers never stop.
On a break, I pass near the galley entrance. Two enlisted soldiers — younger, lean — their voices low, barely hushed. I hear them.
“There she is — the Reaper’s pet,” I catch the words.
My palm tightens on the mop-handle so hard my knuckles go white. I force myself not to turn. Not to answer. Not to crack.
But their laughter follows me down the corridor. Hollow, nasty.
I take a deep breath. The recycled air tastes metallic, stale. I exhale slowly.
Because I know what I did. I know what I am.
I finish my shift without crying. Without losing my head. I scrub the rails, polish the console — the motions automatic, but sharp. Controlled. Measured. Like the way I held that broom-handle. Like the way I hold myself now.
Afterwards, I don’t go back to my bunk right away.
Instead — I drift through the human living quarter.
Lights low, people asleep or half-quiet in the corridors.
I lean against a bulkhead near the window port.
The view of Storder’s forest moon hangs silent outside — green canopy, dark silhouettes, distant glint of the atmosphere when the gas-giant overhead pulses.
I taste bitterness — salt and resentment.
Am I just a trophy? A proof that Vokar can break the rules? A shiny token to show his power?
I close my eyes. I think of the bruises, the soreness, the wet print of bone-plate on my ribs. I think of the way he looked when I knocked him — laughter and blood and heat — and the way he reached out to me after. Not as owner. As equal. Maybe.
But inside the windows of this ship, inside the eyes of those who roam its halls — I’m a pet. A prize. A gamble. A risk.
I rub my palms over my uniform sleeves. The fabric feels coarse beneath my fingers — too scratchy, too thin. I think of the cloak he gave me. Heavy-lined, warm, protective. Not armor. Just… shelter.
I close my fingers over the fabric of my uniform. I whisper to the empty corridor.
“This is my body. My scars. My blood. My fear.”
I don’t know if I believe myself. But I repeat it. Because maybe repeating makes it true.
The hum of engines drifts through the walls. I press my ear — life-support, recycle valves, distant boots. The ship breathes cold.
I press a hand to my ribs again. The bruise pulses. It hurts. But it reminds me I’m alive. I’m human. Fragile. Flesh.
Maybe that’s what frightens them.
I straighten. I step away from the window. I walk.
Because maybe strength isn’t about weapons. Or armor. Or bone-spurs.
Maybe it’s about claiming space. In a world built to hide small things.
I reach the mess-hall door. The metal hums under my fingers as I push it open. Steam rises from trays, smells of stale food and recycled air. A group of officers stand near the ration table. They glance my way. A flicker. A pause. But this time — not sneer. Not laugh. Just silence.
I don’t watch to see if they talk when I turn away. I don’t care.
I carry the tray to the drop-off point. I rinse my hands. I catch my reflection in a polished panel — green eyes, hair pulled back, uniform neat. I look… solid. Grounded.
I taste resolve. Bitter, strong.
I walk back to the living quarters. The corridors echo with late-shift hums, distant chatter, and the lull of footsteps.
I slip off the uniform jacket near the bunk. I don’t feel like wearing the cloak yet. Not tonight.
I lie on the mattress — thin, firm, cold metal lining — and close my eyes.
The ache in my body throbs. The bruise burns faintly. My mind replays the whispers, the laughter, the cold sneers, the sideways glances.
But beneath it, a different pulse: pride. Quiet, stubborn, alive.
I breath soft. Mist in the recycled air.
I whisper to the dark.
“I’m not a pet.”
I don’t know if I’m ready to mean it. But maybe — for the first time — I believe I can.
And that’s a start.
Later, I’m checking schedule logs. The screen glows dim in the bunk’s half-light — the low hum of the hover-belt outside interrupted by the soft clicks of my fingers tapping on the cred-portal.
The numbers scroll across the holo-table: account balances, credit transfers, reference codes, the final line flashing: “Completed — 10-Year Salary Transfer to Orphanage Fund.”
I sit back, pulse humming in my ears louder than the ship’s life-support. The sterile air tastes thin — metal tang and recycled oxygen — but my stomach flips as though I’ve swallowed a comet.
My past and my future collide in that moment.
I see — in memory — the cold bunks of the orphanage, the empty plates, the night-lights flickering out before I could stop shaking.
I smell the antiseptic walls, the stale blankets, the silent desperation hanging like a cloud over fractured children.
I remember fear, hunger, the ache of quiet.
I remember believing I’d touched nothing but dust and loss — that me, Freya McDonnell, would always be invisible, unimportant.
But now — now I hold something real. Something heavy and alive. Ten years’ worth of credits, a lifeline for kids like me. A glow in the darkness for someone else.
I close the portal. The numbers vanish. The screen dims.
For a breath, everything is still.
Then — I let tears come. Quiet, soft, guilt-tinged tears. Because I’ve never had the luxury of letting sorrow or relief out in loud broken sobs. Not in orphanage hallways. Not in IHC corridors.
I press a fist to my mouth, muffling the sound. The crisp, ragged edge of that realization — I have power now. Not big-fleet power, or political clout. But small. Pure. Enough to give hope. Enough to save.
I draw in a shaky breath. Feel the metal bunk under my skin, the cold seam of the wall against my shoulder. The ship creaks. The engines hum. The world yawns above me, distant stars bleeding through the porthole.
I stand. The dampness in my eyes is cold as ice, but inside — fire kindles.
I slip the bunk hatch open, the corridor lighting flicks on, sterile and harsh. The smell of recycled air, machine oil, distant engine heat — warm. Familiar. Safe.
I walk out, cloak already draped over my shoulders. Bare feet in thin socks — a reminder I’m not a soldier, not deck-hand, just human. Just Freya.
I step out onto the deck, toward the outer railing of the station ring — the walkway that curves around like a halo above the planet-lit horizon. I swallow the hum of the engines, the clang of metal plating underfoot. I stand at the rail and look out.
The planet beneath glimmers — a swirl of atmosphere, dark seas, quiet storms. Its light washes over the station’s edges like soft rain. The world seems endless. Infinite possibility.
I close my eyes. Let the wind tug curls of hair across my face. Taste salt and ozone on the breeze.
I have this. I made this.
Earlier me — the girl flipping mop buckets, scrubbing decks, sitting in quiet corners — would never have believed her.
But here I am. Standing. Holding more than ghosts.
Later that night — after shift-change, after lights dim, after whispers and worries have settled into uneasy sleep — I find Vokar on the compound’s outer terrace.
The stillness here is sacred: no boots, no armor clanks, no distant alarms. Just the hush of night, the hum of far-off atmosphere units, and the glow from the gas-giant overhead casting pale, silvery light across his bone-spurred shoulders.
He turns when I arrive, not startled — expecting me. I see something in his stance: steadiness. A kind of worn alertness.
I walk to him, cloak around my shoulders whispering soft against the deck plating.
“I checked,” I say quietly, voice low — the night swallowing it. “The transfer hit. The orphanage… they got it.”
His red eyes narrow, softening. The scar beneath his cheek — I reach out, my fingers hovering over it, not quite touching. I smell cold metal, leather, the distant pine after rain from the forest moon below.
He doesn’t say anything. Just nods.
I lean against the railing beside him. Side by side under planet-light. The wind pulls at my hair, the cloak tugs loose around my shoulders. The night air tastes of ozone, damp pine, and possibility.
I turn toward him. “Why me?” I whisper. Not because I expect a sermon about fate or destiny. Because I don’t understand. I don’t deserve.
He doesn’t answer right away. The atmosphere swirls between us — quiet, alive. I hear the soft hiss of air-vents. I feel the press of his presence, like gravity pulling at my skin.
Then he speaks — soft, deep, low. “Because you saw me. All of me. And you didn’t flinch.”
The words settle in my chest like hot iron. I blink, hard. I taste the smoke-tinge of night air in my throat. I breathe it out slow.
I turn, reach up, brush the pad of my thumb against his lower lip. His skin is cold, firm. Rough ridges of bone-plate under the soft flesh. He doesn’t move. Doesn’t speak. Just holds still — like the world waiting for something to shift.
“Show me all of you again,” I murmur.