Chapter 24
SABLE
The city exhales.
It doesn’t happen all at once. It’s gradual—like a clenched fist loosening finger by finger.
Sirens thin out. Patrols stop double-looping my block.
People stop whispering when they think no one’s listening.
The neon still flickers, the streets still smell like rain and oil and ambition, but the edge dulls. Just enough.
A couple of weeks pass.
Long enough for the ash to wash out of my hair. Long enough for the scorch marks on the fortress to become just another scar in Novaria’s long, ugly history. Long enough for the Nine’s influence to start collapsing in public, spectacular ways.
I watch it happen from my salon chair between clients.
Screens in the corner cycle through headlines while I’m trimming a banker’s undercut.
ALLIANCE SEIZES ASSETS IN MULTI-SYSTEM RAID.
KEY FIGURES OF THE NINE IN CUSTODY.
SHELL CORPORATIONS EXPOSED—MARKETS REEL.
Every time one scrolls by, my stomach does a weird little flip. Relief. Satisfaction. Something darker underneath.
I don’t comment. Neither do my clients. But everyone’s listening harder than they pretend.
Jacey does comment.
“Oh my god,” she says, leaning over my shoulder while I blend a fade. “Tell me you see this. Tell me you’re seeing this.”
“I see it,” I mutter.
She squints at me. “You look… weird.”
“I always look weird.”
“No,” she says slowly. “You look like you’re waiting for something to jump out of a closet and yell ‘gotcha.’”
I snip a little harder than necessary. “Trauma does that.”
“Uh-huh,” she says. “And here I thought it was just because you’re sleeping with a war god and he left.”
I freeze.
The client clears his throat. Loudly.
I paste on a professional smile. “Sorry. Reflex.”
Jacey backs off, mouthing later at me.
Later never really comes.
Because the city keeps moving, and so do I. That’s the trick—if you don’t stop, the quiet can’t catch you. I reopen the salon full-time. I take walk-ins. I argue with suppliers. I yell at a contractor for tracking dust through my space. I live.
Somewhere in the middle of all that, Tugun files paperwork.
I find out because Lazarus tells me, like it’s a weather update.
“He submitted for a commercial permit,” Lazarus says over a secure call, tone dry. “Textiles. Apparel. Personal brand consulting.”
I blink at the screen. “You’re kidding.”
“I wish I were.”
“What’s the name?” I ask, already bracing myself.
There’s a pause. Then: “‘Second Cut.’”
I snort. “Of course it is.”
“He’s also registered with three nonviolence advocacy groups,” Lazarus adds. “And donated a not-insignificant amount of money to victim compensation funds.”
I lean back against my counter, staring at the ceiling. “I can’t believe I almost died for a man who’s now pivoting into ethical fashion.”
“Life is strange,” Lazarus says.
“You’re telling me.”
He hesitates. “For what it’s worth… Voltar would be relieved.”
My chest tightens at his name, sharp and familiar and still too close to the surface.
“Tell him yourself,” I say lightly.
Lazarus doesn’t respond.
The line goes quiet.
Another week slides by.
Then my body decides to stage a hostile takeover.
It starts with nausea.
Not delicate nausea. Not movie nausea. The kind that hits like a hammer and gives you exactly three seconds to regret every life choice you’ve ever made before you’re on your knees in the bathroom, dry-heaving like you’ve been poisoned.
I assume food poisoning. Or stress. Or the universe having a sense of humor.
The third time it happens in a week, I’m less amused.
I sit on the cold tile floor afterward, back against the tub, sweating and shaky, staring at my reflection in the mirror like it might explain itself.
“Oh no,” I whisper.
The clinic smells like antiseptic and recycled air and too many other people’s fear.
The nurse is kind. Efficient. Entirely too calm.
“Blood test will confirm,” she says, tapping at her tablet. “But the indicators are strong.”
I laugh.
It bursts out of me, high and sharp and completely inappropriate.
She pauses. “Is… everything all right?”
“I’m sorry,” I say, pressing my hand to my mouth. “This is just—wow. Timing.”
She offers a cautious smile. “You’re not the first person to say that.”
The test confirms it.
Pregnant.
The word feels enormous. Heavy. Real.
I sit there for a long minute after she leaves, staring at the wall while the reality of it settles into my bones.
Then I laugh again.
Then I cry.
Then I laugh harder because the crying is ridiculous and also inevitable and also kind of hysterical.
“Oh stars,” I whisper to no one. “Voltar.”
I don’t tell anyone right away.
I go home. I sit on my couch. I put my feet up and stare at the ceiling like it’s going to crack open and give me instructions.
Eventually, I pull up Lazarus’s secure channel.
I record the message myself. No filters. No drafts. No second takes.
I look straight into the camera.
“Hey,” I say, voice steady despite everything. “Okay. So. This is going to be weird, and I don’t know how to do this without making it weird, so I’m just going to say it.”
I take a breath.
“I’m pregnant.”
I laugh, a little breathless. “Yeah. I know. Me too.”
My eyes burn. I blink hard and keep going.
“The clinic confirmed it this morning. I cried. Then I laughed. Then I cried again. I’m still kind of doing both, so if this comes out garbled, sorry.”
I swallow.
“I don’t know where you are when you get this. I don’t know what kind of day you’re having. I just—” My voice softens. “I wanted you to hear it from me. From my face. Not a report.”
I smile then, small but real.
“Congratulations, soldier,” I say. “Looks like Alliance paternity leave is about to get real awkward.”
I reach forward and end the recording before I can overthink it.
Lazarus confirms receipt an hour later.
Three days after that, he shows up in person.
He doesn’t say anything at first. Just hands me a tablet.
“What’s this?” I ask.
“After-action footage,” he says. “From Voltar’s unit. He authorized the release.”
My heart slams into my ribs.
I tap play.
The feed is chaotic—smoke, gunfire, shouted orders in half a dozen languages. Voltar is there, unmistakable even through the noise, armor scorched, fists red with someone else’s blood.
The message notification pings.
He freezes.
Just for a fraction of a second.
Then he listens.
I hear my own voice echoing faintly through the feed, distorted but clear enough.
Congratulations, soldier…
Voltar throws his head back and roars.
It’s not a battle cry.
It’s not rage.
It’s joy. Raw and uncontained.
The enemies nearest him scatter like startled animals.
“I’M COMING HOME!” he bellows, voice tearing through the chaos like a promise carved into stone.
The feed cuts out.
I sit there, stunned, tears streaming down my face and a smile I can’t stop.
Lazarus clears his throat. “He put in for immediate reassignment.”
I look up. “And?”
“And,” he says carefully, “Alliance paternity leave statutes are… quite strict.”
I laugh through my tears.
The city outside hums, alive and quiet and waiting.
And for the first time since the sky swallowed him whole, I believe it.
He’s coming home.