Chapter 4 #2
She leans back against the rail, arms crossed, and looks at me like someone considering a delicate instrument. “You could try, for once, not to be a spectacle. Try to be a person here.”
“And what if being a person gets me killed?” I ask. The words are sharp, raw as metal. “What if being a person is the same as being soft?”
She’s quiet for a long time. Then she says, “People die. That’s not your fault. Not having been taught to live afterwards—that’s something else.”
I want to argue. I want to say that I lived by rules they never understood. I want to say that warrior is all I know. But the truth is a smaller, meaner thing: bravery without someone to see it is hollow. She sees me. It’s a strange terror.
She unhooks herself from the rail and steps closer. “Stay,” she says. Not a command. Not even a plea. Just a small word.
I stay.
Because the silence afterward is worse than her scolding. Because the only thing worse than being a war god is being a ghost.
We stand there together, two shapes in the stairwell, and for once the gossip sounds like nothing but a wind passing through leaves.
The garden smells like night and damp earth and something green, something that’s been watered too many times.
Bioluminescent vines hang overhead, glowing faint teal in the humid dark.
The air tastes faintly of ozone and chlorophyll.
I find her bent by the orchid-trees, adjusting a sensor pad in the soil.
Her silhouette is sharp against the soft glow.
I clear my throat. She startles, then shifts, folding her arms. “You came.”
She doesn’t say, yes. She says, “You yelled for it.” Her voice is brittle, but not angry yet.
I step close. The warm glow illuminates the scars on my arm where the tech meets flesh. She doesn’t blanch. Doesn’t step back.
“Jaela,” I begin, but she cuts me off.
“Don’t act like you’re some noble rescue.” Her words snap between us, sharper than knives. “I’m not another fan girl who wants to bang the war hero.”
The shock strikes me silent. My chest tightens. I can taste sweat, the bitter copper flavor of adrenaline and shame.
She’s right. I stiffen. “I—” But the word dies.
She pivots. “I came here because I had to. Because someone has to push you past your pride. Because you’ve been walking with your demons like they’re your only goddamn companions.”
I swallow. My throat is thick. “I’m sorry.” The apology tumbles out unexpectedly, raw and sincere. “I’m not used to being challenged—not like this.”
Her breath catches. The vines above hum in slow pulses. The lights flicker. She doesn’t answer at once. I keep going.
“I’ve always expected people to back off—to bow to the war name or the scars. You—” I shake my head, “You push. Not for my destruction. For my becoming.”
She’s looking at me now, eyes bright in the dim. “You make assumptions,” she says. “You assume that I think I can fix you. That I think you’re broken. I don’t. You walk tall. You fight too much. But that doesn’t mean you’re unworthy.”
I laugh—a humorless sound. “Unworthy of what?”
“Of someone who doesn’t lie to you,” she says. “Of someone who won’t look away when you’re bleeding.” She shifts, stepping closer. “I don’t want to save you, Kyldak. I want to stand with you.”
The words land like soft thunder. I feel the tremor in my limbs, the unsteady beat of my heart. I want to say something ridiculous. Something brave. Instead I settle for, “Earth food or Vakutan—what would you choose?”
She blinks. “I’ll try both—if you’ll show me your world first.” Her tone is playful. But I hear the weight behind it.
I grin—scarred, crooked. “Then tonight we’ll steal dessert from the kitchens.”
She laughs. Light, unexpected, and it loosens something dark in me. “You’d get kicked out for that.”
“Worth it.”
We walk side by side through the bioluminescent shrubs, quiet except for the soft hum of vines. I point to a glowing leaf. “On Vakut, flowers sing for mates. Light pulses in rhythm. But only to those… attuned.” I hesitate. “It’s awkward. A lot of misfires. Like broken songs.”
She turns to me. “Broken songs can be beautiful.”
I want to lean in. Smell her hair. Promise her I’m not what she fears. But the memory of night, of explosions, of tribunals, weighs me back.
We keep walking. She tells me about Earth food—the tang of summer berries, the snap of fresh bread crust, coffee strong enough to land a starship. I listen, surprised I know so little of the planet I live on now.
She asks about Vakutan mating rituals. I stammer through that, describing color shifts, pheromones, and awkward initiation dances. She laughs at my descriptions. I hate how much I like the sound of it.
We circle the garden path until we reach the gate. I’ve walked beside enough warriors, commanded legions, walked through fire and ash—and none have spoken to me like this. None have asked me to be more than armor.
Her hand brushes mine as we part. The air between us crackles. She freezes.
In the dark, I say softly, “If I were someone else—someone without your wars—would you look at me the way I look at you?”
She doesn’t answer. She steps through the gate. Her outline blurs in the glowing vines. I watch until she disappears.
That night, I don’t sleep. I dream of broken wings, of golden skin under human stars, of her voice pulling me out of ruin. I wake with my chest raw, heart still pounding, lungs tasting of moth wings and regrets.
And I want her. Not in fragments. As something real.