Chapter 27 Sable
SABLE
Months pass the way weather does—slow until you notice everything’s different.
My center of gravity migrates south. My patience evaporates. My ankles swell like they’re personally offended by gravity. I am very pregnant, very tired, and deeply suspicious of anyone who says the word glow in my presence.
Voltar says it a lot.
“You’re glowing,” he tells me one morning while I’m trying to wrestle my boots on without dislocating a hip.
“I am sweating,” I correct. “There is a difference.”
He crouches in front of me anyway, massive frame folding with surprising grace, and takes the boot out of my hands. “Let me.”
“I can do it.”
“I know,” he says mildly. “I just like helping.”
He slides the boot on carefully, like he’s handling something fragile, and my irritation softens despite myself. Damn him.
“There,” he says, tugging the laces snug. “Warrior ready.”
I glare at him. “Do not call this a warrior stance. I look like a penguin who lost a bet.”
“You look powerful,” he counters.
“I look round.”
“Round can be powerful.”
I snort. “You are not winning this argument.”
He grins like he’s already won something else.
Later that day—because the universe has a sense of humor—he tries to introduce me to his warrior birth training playlist.
It starts with drums.
Not gentle drums. Not ambient, meditative nonsense. Full-on Vakutan war rhythms that sound like they’re meant to intimidate mountains into moving out of the way.
The speakers vibrate. The walls hum. The baby kicks like it’s trying to escape.
I stare at him.
He watches me expectantly. “It builds endurance.”
“It’s making my organs rearrange themselves,” I say. “Turn it off.”
“But—”
“Voltar.”
He sighs and shuts it down. “Fine. We’ll alternate. You pick the next one.”
I cue up soft holonet jazz with a singer who sounds like she’s whispering secrets to the universe.
Voltar listens for exactly twenty seconds before leaning over. “Is she okay?”
“Yes,” I say sweetly. “She’s relaxed. Try it sometime.”
Jacey thinks all of this is hilarious.
She throws the baby shower like it’s a military operation crossed with a spa day.
The salon closes early. Decorations go up everywhere—soft lights, floating ribbons, neutral colors that don’t scream gender reveal catastrophe.
There’s food. So much food. Half of it I can’t stand the smell of.
The other half disappears mysteriously whenever I pass by.
“Eat,” Jacey orders, shoving a plate into my hands. “You’re growing a person.”
“I am also growing resentment,” I mutter.
She smacks my arm. “You love this.”
I look around.
Voltar is awkwardly holding court with a group of my clients, nodding solemnly while someone explains exfoliation techniques like it’s classified intelligence. Lazarus lurks near the punch bowl, looking profoundly uncomfortable. Tugun is… well.
Tugun designed the invitations.
They are beautiful. Minimalist. Elegant. Hand-scripted with a subtle shimmer that catches the light just right.
“They’re biodegradable,” he tells me proudly. “And cruelty-free.”
“Define cruelty,” I ask.
“Exploitation,” he says simply.
I study him for a moment, then nod. “I approve.”
The Nine officially dissolve not long after.
It’s anticlimactic, honestly. No dramatic announcement. Just headlines that keep piling up until it’s undeniable.
SYNDICATE LEADERS FLEE.
ASSETS SEIZED.
POWER VACUUM SPARKS INTERNAL COLLAPSE.
Otto is sentenced to exile.
No appeals. No deals. He’s escorted offworld under guard, stripped of influence and reduced to a cautionary tale whispered in bars.
I don’t celebrate.
I just… breathe easier.
Peace settles over Novaria like a cautious animal—present, but ready to bolt at the first loud noise. Patrols scale back. People linger longer in public spaces. The city feels less like it’s holding its breath.
At night, when Voltar’s asleep beside me, one arm heavy over my middle like a living barricade, I have strange dreams.
My mother is there.
Not as I remember her—not a shadow or a rumor—but whole. Solid. She looks tired. Older than I expect. She stands in doorways and kitchens and places that feel like memory more than reality.
She never speaks.
She just watches me with an expression that’s complicated and soft and full of things I don’t have words for yet.
Forgiveness, maybe.
I wake up with my heart pounding and my hand on my stomach, grounding myself in the here and now.
I don’t tell Voltar.
I don’t tell Jacey.
Not yet.
Some things need time.
For now, I sit on the couch, feet propped up, city lights flickering outside, and let the quiet settle.