The recycled air of the mess deck always carried a story. Today’s was a layered tale of reheated protein loaf, the faint, sweet-sharp tang of hydraulic fluid from a nearby service vent, and the underlying ozone-clean scent of a starship working as intended. It was a comfortable, industrial smell, one I was starting to associate with home, or the closest approximation I was likely to get. Right now, it was a stark contrast to the metaphysical precipice David Wasserman was describing.

  He smiled a little, a faint crinkling at the corners of his eyes that seemed to hold galaxies of weary experience. “It’s not terribly important at this stage, but as you gain power, you start to discover that the universe is balanced on a knifepoint, a razor’s tip between chaos and entropy on one axis, and utter corruption versus unadulterated tyranny in the other.” His voice was a low rumble, like stones grinding deep underground. “The sepsis of darkness lies beneath, a patient, hungry thing waiting for a crack. And the divine, and God himself, lies above, constantly trying to tug the universe out of the darkness while mortals, us poor fools, spend our lives trying to drag it in various directions, convinced we know better.”

  I could almost see it, a terrifying cosmic diagram sketched in the air between us with the steam rising from our mugs. My mind, ever the eager cartographer, tried to map it, to find the coordinates where a lone Maenad might fit into such a vast and dreadful equilibrium. The scale of it was dizzying.

  A burst of laughter from across the mess deck shattered the image. Dienne-Lar, the elven golemancer, was holding court with a pair of human troopers from third shift, his voice a melodic, insinuating drone. The sound was an intrusion, a splash of garish color on the stark, monochrome canvas David had been painting. My already frayed nerves, stretched thin by the aftermath of the rift and the constant, low-grade hum of my own accelerating power, twanged in protest.

  Right. Private conversation. Need to fix that.

  “Hold on a sec.” I raised a finger to David, a silent plea for a pause in the cosmic lecture. “Hey Dienne!”

  He turned, a picture of elegant indolence, one eyebrow arched. “Yes, Gabby?”

  I suppressed a wince. “Ugh, don’t call me that. It makes me sound like a pet dog. Hey, you finished eating… do you think you could conclude your discussions with the ladies elsewhere?” The request came out more bluntly than I’d intended, stripped of social grace by sheer exhaustion. I was too tired for diplomacy, too tired to navigate the labyrinthine social protocols of this ship.

  He blinked, then a slow, predatory grin spread across his face. “Wait, is the paragon of virtuous femininity begging ME to take these ladies somewhere more private?” The troopers giggled, looking from him to me with amused curiosity.

  I met his gaze, my own flat and unamused. Paragon of virtue? Is that what they think? Or is he just being an ass? Probably the latter. “I don’t know who that is, but I am asking. I need to have a private discussion, and I am too tired to take it to the gym.” The truth, simple and unvarnished. The gym, with its crushing gravity and the ghost of our last conversation there, felt like a million light-years away.

  He smiled at one of the ladies, a dazzling, practiced expression that probably worked on everything with a pulse, and stood, offering an arm to each. “You heard the most exquisite young lady. The mess deck is hereby ceded for matters of state. Shall we continue this discussion in a more… accommodating venue?”

  They left in a swirl of laughter and flirtation, leaving a sudden, echoing quiet in their wake. The silence felt heavier now, charged with the conversation we’d paused. Apparently, I guess I provided the excuse Dienne needed.

  I turned back to David. “You sound more religious than I thought you were. I was thinking a divine paladin was more of a tool for smiting great evil than a thoughtful believer.” It was an honest admission. I’d seen him fight, or at least the aftermath. I’d felt the brutal, uncompromising weight of his aura. I’d categorized him as a weapon, a complex and damaged one, but a weapon nonetheless. The man speaking of cosmic balance and divine intent didn’t quite fit the profile.

  He laughed, a short, sharp sound that held little humor. “When you look into the face of true evil, Roisin, it’s impossible to ignore the opposition of pure good. It’s not a philosophical debate then. It’s a physical law. Yeah, I am religious. Not totally convinced that the church itself is the ultimate bastion of purity, but God is pretty much incontrovertible when a lich is trying to peel your soul from your body.” He took a slow sip of his coffee, his gaze distant. “I am not a member of the formal clergy, so I don’t proselytize or anything… and some of the church’s laws are pretty selfish and based around maintaining temporal power more than saving souls, but I forgive that… men rule the church, not God, and men are fallible.”

  Ensure your favorite authors get the support they deserve. Read this novel on the original website.

  There’s a nuance I hadn’t considered. It made sense. The Fleet chaplains I’d glimpsed in the 132nd had a polished, administrative feel to them. David felt… raw. Like a live wire directly connected to the source he described.

  A question, one that had been buzzing in the back of my mind like a trapped insect, fought its way to the forefront. My innocence, the part of me that still felt like a child from a quiet underground village, warred with my analytical need for data. The analytical side won, as it usually did.

  “Does that mean you umm… have vows?” I asked, my voice a little smaller than I’d have liked.

  He nodded without hesitation. “Of course. Oaths and vows are kind of what paladins DO. They’re the architecture of our power, part of our purification and the path we walk. Most of my oaths are based around fighting the undead and corrupters instead of solely against the Chaos Lords, though. Lots of people fight against rifts—it’s a galactic pastime. But necrotic corruption terrifies most of them, for good reason. It’s… stupidly overpowered for its rank, which is why paladins have to call upon extraordinary power to defeat it. The vows are the conduit for that power.”

  I shook my head, my cheeks feeling slightly warm. “No, I meant like… vows about girls.” The moment the words were out, I wanted to snatch them back. It sounded so juvenile. But I had to know. The attraction I felt was a constant, low-grade current between us, a pull as undeniable as gravity.

  He chuckled, a deep, rich sound that did funny things to my insides. “You mean like a vow of chastity or celibacy?”

  I could only nod, my tongue feeling like it was glued to the roof of my mouth.

  He shrugged, the heavy plates of his shoulders shifting. “Chastity is part of it, but it’s not what you might think. Chastity, in the old sense, means fidelity. Not betraying the one you love. It’s about honor, not denial. Celibacy, though… not a chance.” He gave me a look that was pure, unadulterated Wasserman—a mix of grim amusement and stark honesty. “I am still human enough that permanently cutting off my man bits is a step way, way too far. The church encourages marriage and family, for those who can manage it. Strengthens the community, provides more souls for the fight. It’s pragmatism, not Puritanism.”

  A wave of relief, so potent it was almost dizzying, washed over me. So that particular door wasn’t welded shut. But then his expression shifted, the amusement fading, replaced by something darker, more profound.

  “With you, though, Roisin,” he said, and my name on his lips felt like a benediction and a sentence all at once, “Chastity is absolutely what is holding me back. Because if we were together, it would be permanent. I am dying… a lot more slowly since you helped me, but it’s inevitable. The necrotic essence is too deeply woven into my core, my very soul, for anyone short of a gold-core saint to eliminate. What would happen if we bonded, the right way, and I died?”

  The question hung in the air, brutal and simple. I didn’t have to think about my answer. The truth of it was written into my DNA. “I’d join you.” The words were quiet, but absolute. There was no other possible outcome in that scenario. A true bond wasn’t a contract; it was a fusion. One could not exist without the other.

  He didn’t flinch. He’d expected it. “How about if I died, and then immediately returned, a necrotic creature, still me, still sentient, but undead instead of alive? A thinking, feeling monster. What would you do? Still bound to me?”

  The scenario was a thousand times worse. My mind recoiled from it, from the image of him—pale, cold, radiating that same death-essence he fought against, but with his eyes, his voice, his memories. My analytical process short-circuited, leaving only raw emotion. “I… I don’t know.” The admission was a betrayal, and it hurt. “I would try to help you, to cure you, whatever it took.”

  “Would you kill me?” His voice was gentle, but the question was a blade.

  My own voice dropped to a whisper, the sound seeming to be swallowed by the hum of the ship. “I couldn’t.”

  “Would you turn me into a cyborg or a technomancer if you thought I could control it and not turn into a life-draining evil? If you could cage the monster with machinery and willpower?”

  This, I could actually consider. This was my domain. I thought about it, truly thought, pushing past the horror to the grim engineering problem at its core. Could his will, already so formidable, be augmented? Could necrotic energy be channeled, grounded, converted? My technomancy senses itched with the possibility, a dark and terrifying allure. “I think… I might?” The words were a question, a confession of a capability I wasn't sure I wanted to possess.

  He nodded slowly, his expression one of profound sadness. “And that is why I won’t bond you. Because it would be a betrayal of the worst kind. I know damned well what is going to happen to me eventually, and I am hoping—praying—we can get you powerful enough to destroy me when it happens. My soul, I don’t know if I will go to heaven or be damned when it happens, but when it does, if I live long enough, I WILL damn myself. A very few living people have a strong enough will to control necrotic essence and turn it towards good… but the undead? Nope. The thing that would rise from my corpse would be a clever, patient evil wearing my face, and it would use our bond to destroy you and everything you care about. I won’t have that on my conscience.”

  The finality in his voice was a physical blow. He’d already written his ending, and it was a tragedy. He saw himself as a dead man walking, and his primary mission was to recruit his own executioner. And he wanted that executioner to be me.

  The sheer, brutal nobility of it took my breath away. And it pissed me off.