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He’s coming home.

CHAPTER 25

VOLTAR

Ibreak Alliance speed regs the way some people break bad habits—repeatedly, unapologetically, and with a vague sense that I’ll deal with the consequences later.

The leave request goes through faster than most mortals survive a fight.

I don’t submit it politely. I don’t wait my turn. I don’t ask permission like a good little commander who understands that war schedules are sacred and feelings are inconvenient. I shove the request straight up the chain with a priority flag so bright it practically screams,read me or die mad about it.

The reply comes back while I’m still wiping someone else’s blood off my knuckles.

APPROVED. EFFECTIVE IMMEDIATELY.

I stare at the words until they feel real.

Then I laugh.

It tears out of me, loud and rough and completely unhinged, and the medic across the field station flinches like I’ve just gone feral.

“What?” he asks cautiously.

“I’m going home,” I say.

He blinks. “Sir?”

“I’m going home,” I repeat, louder. “Pack it up, boys. War’s gonna have to miss me for a bit.”

Someone down the line whoops. Someone else swears. A third person starts taking bets on how long my absence lasts.

I don’t answer.

Because I already know the answer.

As fast as physics will allow.

And then a little faster.

The shuttle ride to the cruiser is a blur of vibration and poorly concealed panic from the pilot when I tell him topush it.The cruiser’s nav officer starts protesting projected burnout rates. I glare at him until his voice dies in his throat.

“I’ll sign whatever waiver you want,” I tell him. “Or I’ll sign your medical leave when you faint. Your call.”

We hit superluminal with a scream of tortured metal and a few bones break along the way.

Not mine.

Someone in the aft compartment didn’t strap in properly. That’s not my problem. I send medical their way and keep my eyes locked on the trajectory display like if I stare hard enough, Novaria will hurry up.

We arrive ahead of schedule.

Way ahead.

I jump planetside in a scout because waiting for proper clearance feels like asking the universe for permission to breathe.

By the time I hit the city, I smell home.

It’s stupid, but it’s real. Novaria has a scent—rain on concrete, ionized air from transit lanes, a faint undercurrent of ozone and overworked power grids. It hits my lungs and something in my chest loosens that I didn’t realize had been clenched since the shuttle left.