Chapter 23
VOLTAR
Isit on the edge of her bed and stare at the floor like it’s got answers written into the grain.
It doesn’t.
The room smells like her—clean soap, heat-styled hair, a faint chemical sweetness from whatever product she used last night.
There’s ash ground into the rug from our boots, a cracked lamp leaning against the wall like it gave up trying to stay upright.
Morning light bleeds in through the window, thin and pale, catching on the metal edges of my armor where it lies scattered across the floor.
Half of me is dressed for war.
The other half doesn’t want to move.
My chestplate rests against the dresser, still smeared with soot. One gauntlet sits by the door. The other is already locked onto my arm, servos humming softly every time I flex my fingers. The sound is familiar. Comforting. Like a heartbeat I’ve trusted for most of my life.
Behind me, fabric rustles.
Sable doesn’t say anything.
That’s what hurts the most.
I glance back just enough to see her reflection in the mirror. She’s pulling on a shirt—slow, precise movements. Button. Button. Button. Her hands are steady, but her knuckles are white, blood pressed tight beneath the skin like she’s daring it to surface.
She isn’t crying.
I’d almost prefer it if she were.
I clear my throat. It comes out rough. “You don’t have to—”
She cuts me a look in the mirror. Sharp. Not angry. Controlled.
“Don’t,” she says. “Don’t start with that.”
I nod once and shut my mouth. She’s right. If I open the wrong door, I won’t be able to close it again.
Silence stretches.
The city outside is waking up. I hear distant traffic, a siren far off, the low hum of power lines cycling back into their daytime rhythm. Life, just… continuing. Like nothing happened. Like the fortress didn’t burn. Like the world didn’t almost lose something it didn’t even know it needed.
“I don’t want to go,” I say.
The words fall heavy between us. Not dramatic. Not shouted. Just the truth, laid bare and unarmored.
She doesn’t turn around right away.
“I know,” she says quietly.
Another button. Another breath.
“But you will,” she adds.
I swallow.
“Yeah,” I say. “I will.”
Because we both know I don’t get to choose that part.
I look down at my hands. One bare. One armored. The contrast feels obscene. Like two versions of me are sitting here together, neither willing to leave the other behind.
“I keep thinking,” I say, voice low, “that if I just sit here long enough, they’ll rescind the order. Like it was a mistake. Like someone’s gonna knock on the door and say, ‘Oops, wrong Voltar.’”
She lets out a soft huff that might’ve been a laugh in another life. “You? Mistaken identity?”
“Hey,” I mutter. “It could happen.”
She finally turns.
Gods.
She looks… put together. Hair smoothed back. Shirt crisp. Spine straight. Like she’s braced herself from the inside out and dared the universe to try something.
Her eyes meet mine.
I lose the thread of whatever I was about to say.
“You’re doing that thing,” she says.
“What thing?”
“Looking at me like you’re trying to memorize my face.”
I don’t deny it.
“Figured it was smart,” I say. “In case the war knocks my head around.”
Her mouth tightens, just a fraction. She crosses the room and stops in front of me, close enough that I can feel her heat, smell her skin beneath the soap and ozone.
“You’re not allowed to joke right now,” she says.
“Copy that.”
Another silence.
There’s so much I want to say it all bottlenecks in my chest, clogs up my lungs. I’ve faced down orbital bombardments with less fear than this. At least those were honest. You see the fire coming.
This is quieter. Worse.
“I don’t think I told you this part,” I say finally. “About what changed.”
She tilts her head slightly. “I’m listening.”
I drag a hand over my face, feeling the roughness of dried ash along my jaw. “My whole life, people treated me like I was a weapon. A good one. A loud one. But still just… something you point and fire.”
She doesn’t interrupt.
“I leaned into it,” I continue. “Made it easier. If they want a monster, fine. I’ll be the best one they’ve got.”
My fingers curl into my palm. “I didn’t know there was anything else.”
She steps closer, knees brushing mine.
“You showed me,” I say. “Just by existing. By arguing with me. By trusting me. By looking at me like I wasn’t… disposable.”
Her breath catches. I hear it. See it.
“I didn’t know I could be more than war,” I finish.
Her eyes shine now, but still—still—no tears fall. She’s holding herself together with pure will, and it wrecks me.
“Voltar,” she says softly.
I stand before she can finish, the bed creaking behind me. I’m suddenly very aware of how big I am, how much space I take up in this small room that feels like a sanctuary I don’t deserve.
I reach for her, hesitate, then cup her face with my bare hand. My thumb brushes along her cheekbone, smearing a faint streak of ash I didn’t realize was still there.
“You changed me,” I say again, because it feels important to say it out loud. “No one’s ever done that before.”
She swallows hard.
“Don’t put that on me,” she says. “You did the changing.”
“Maybe,” I admit. “But you were the reason.”
For a second, her composure cracks.
She surges forward and kisses me.
It’s not gentle.
It’s not careful.
It’s desperate and bruising and full of everything we’re not saying. Her hands fist in the fabric at my sides, knuckles digging into muscle like she’s trying to anchor herself. I kiss her back just as hard, pouring everything I can’t take with me into the press of my mouth against hers.
I taste salt.
I don’t ask if it’s tears.
When we break apart, we’re both breathing hard. Foreheads touching. The world narrowed down to this small, fierce space.
“That,” she says hoarsely, “is because it might be goodbye.”
My chest tightens painfully.
“It’s not,” I say immediately.
She doesn’t argue.
She just looks at me like she knows better than to make promises the universe loves to break.
“I need you to come back,” she says.
“I will.”
“Don’t say it like it’s easy.”
“It’s not,” I admit. “But it’s mandatory.”
A ghost of a smile flickers across her mouth. “Figures.”
I step back before I lose my nerve. Before I decide to burn the entire command structure to the ground and damn the consequences.
I finish donning my armor.
Piece by piece, the war version of me locks back into place. Plates slide over muscle. Seals hiss shut. The weight settles onto my shoulders like an old, unwelcome friend. The servos sync, the systems hum, and with every second I feel the distance between us growing.
When I turn back to her, she’s watching me like she’s imprinting the image onto her bones.
“You look terrifying,” she says quietly.
“Good,” I reply. “That means they’ll think twice.”
She reaches out, touches the edge of my chestplate. Just once. Then she pulls her hand back like it burns.
The door chimes.
Once.
Twice.
They’re ready.
I hesitate at the threshold, then look back at her one last time.
“I’m not done with you,” I say.
Her chin lifts. “You’d better not be.”
I open the door.
The hallway smells like sterilizer and fresh morning air. Lazarus stands a respectful distance away, eyes averted, giving us privacy he absolutely understands the value of.
I step out.
The door slides shut behind me with a soft, final sound.
And for the first time in a very long time, the war doesn’t feel like where I belong—it just feels like where I’m being sent.
The shuttle port smells like hot metal, fuel vapor, and inevitability.
That’s the only way I can describe it.
Engines whine overhead—short-range troop carriers cycling through preflight, dropships settling into their cradles with hydraulic groans that rattle my bones.
The air vibrates constantly, a low, omnipresent hum that crawls up my spine and sets my instincts on edge.
Every sound says movement. Departure. No turning back.
My boots hit the deck plating in heavy, measured steps. Armor fully locked now. Systems green. Weapon safeties engaged. Everything about me screams ready—except the part of my chest that feels like someone reached in and cracked a rib from the inside.
Lazarus walks beside me for half a dozen paces, then peels off without a word. Smart man. He knows this part doesn’t belong to him.
I stop at the edge of the embarkation lane, staring at the shuttle that’s going to take me away from her.
It’s ugly. Utilitarian. All angles and scorched paint. The kind of craft that doesn’t care who it carries as long as they fit and can survive atmospheric shear. The kind of ship that only ever flies one direction: forward.
“Voltar.”
The voice doesn’t belong here.
I turn slowly, already irritated, already prepared to bare my teeth at whatever idiot thought now was a good time.
Instead, I see Tugun.
Stars above and below, he looks… different.
Not smaller. Not weaker. Still a Grolgath, still sharp-featured and tall, lavender skin polished like he’s never met dirt a day in his life. But his suit—his suit is something else entirely.
Muted tones. Clean lines. Tailored, but restrained. No aggressive lapels. No weaponized couture. He looks like someone who’s trying very hard not to draw attention to himself and failing purely because of who he is.
He holds a slim case under one arm. Fabric sample case, if I had to guess.
I stare at him.
He stares back.
The engines roar louder overhead, punctuating the moment like the universe clearing its throat.
“You have a lot of nerve,” I say.
Tugun inclines his head. “I’ve been told.”
“You’re lucky I’m on orders,” I growl. “Otherwise—”
“You’d kill me,” he finishes calmly. “Yes. We’ve established that.”
I step closer, looming deliberately. I want him to feel it. To understand exactly how thin the line is between conversation and violent obituary.
“If she dies—” I start.
“—I’ll be dead first,” he says.
No hesitation.
No theatrics.
Just fact.
The simplicity of it knocks some of the heat out of my anger. I narrow my eyes, searching his face for bullshit. For posturing. For ego.
I don’t find any.
“You expect me to believe that?” I ask.
He shrugs one elegant shoulder. “Believe whatever you want. I’m not doing this for you.”
“Good,” I snap. “Because I didn’t ask—”
“I’m doing it for me,” he continues. “She believed in me. That means something.”
The words land heavier than they should.
I cross my arms over my chestplate, servos whining softly at the movement. “She’s not a charity project.”
“I know,” Tugun says. “That’s why it mattered.”
We stand there, two apex predators pretending this is a civilized conversation instead of a prelude to bloodshed.
“What does ‘protect’ mean to you?” I ask finally.
Tugun taps the side of his case thoughtfully. “It means I don’t kill anymore.”
I bark a laugh before I can stop myself. “You expect me to buy that?”
“No,” he says. “I expect you to understand it.”
My claws flex involuntarily. “You’re a murderer.”
“Yes.”
“You enjoyed it.”
“Yes.”
“And now you’re telling me you’re done.”
“I’m telling you I found something better,” he replies. “Also—” He pauses, considering his words. “Murder is terrible for brand optics.”
Despite myself, a sharp huff of laughter escapes me.
“You are unbelievable.”
“Thank you.”
I step in close again, close enough that he has to tilt his head back to meet my eyes. “You fail her, and there won’t be a corner of this galaxy you can hide in.”
His expression doesn’t change. “I wouldn’t try.”
Something in his posture shifts—not fear, not submission, but… acceptance. Like he understands the terms and has already signed the contract in blood.
I step back.
“Get out of my sight,” I tell him.
Tugun inclines his head once more, smooth and formal. “Commander.”
He turns and walks away, disappearing into the bustle of the port like he was never here at all.
I stand there longer than I should.
Then—something pulls at me.
Not physically. Something deeper.
I turn.
The balcony above the port is narrow, reinforced glass curving along its edge. It’s meant for observers. Families. People who don’t want to stand on the deck and breathe fuel fumes while their lives leave without them.
Sable stands there.
Arms crossed. Shoulders squared. Spine straight as a blade.
She’s not crying.
Of course she’s not.
The wind tugs at her hair, lifts it slightly off her shoulders, and for one ridiculous second my brain offers me a memory that doesn’t exist—her laughing in sunlight, yelling at me for tracking soot into her apartment, threatening to make me sit on a towel like an overgrown dog.
My chest tightens so hard it almost hurts to breathe.
She doesn’t wave.
She doesn’t smile.
She just watches.
I lift my hand in a salute.
Formal. Precise. The same one I’ve used on battlefields and decks slick with blood. The one that means I see you. I acknowledge you. You matter.
She holds my gaze.
Doesn’t move.
Doesn’t break.
That’s what nearly destroys me.
Because I know her well enough now to understand exactly what’s happening behind those eyes. I can practically hear her voice in my head—sharp, steady, refusing to bend.
Don’t you dare look back.
Don’t you make this harder.
Go.
The shuttle’s boarding signal chirps. Once. Twice.
Time’s up.
I turn away before my resolve fractures.
The ramp lowers with a hiss, metal teeth biting into the deck.
I climb it without looking back again, every step an act of will.
Inside, the shuttle smells like recycled air and disinfectant.
Troops sit strapped into crash harnesses along the walls—Vakutan, Alzhon, human. Some glance up at me. Some don’t.
One of them whistles softly. “Stars. They send you when they’re serious.”
I grunt and strap in opposite him. “They always do.”
The ramp seals.
The engines spin up, vibration crawling through my armor, into my bones.
As the shuttle lifts, inertia presses me back into the seat. The port drops away beneath us, shrinking fast. I catch one last glimpse of the balcony through the narrowing viewport.
Sable is still there.
Still watching.
The glass reflects the rising sun, turning her into a silhouette edged in gold.
The sky swallows us whole.
I close my eyes.
Not because I’m afraid.
Because for the first time in my life, there’s something worth keeping my eyes closed for—an image I don’t want the war to overwrite.
Her heart may be shattering right now.
But her spine stays straight.
And gods help the galaxy—I’m going to make sure mine does too.