The hum of Deep Crown’s systems was a steady rhythm beneath them, a quiet song of power and movement. But for once, it wasn’t the sound of alarms, torpedoes loading, or hull breaches.

  It was just… peace.

  For the first time in what felt like a lifetime, there was no immediate battle to plan, no harvester to destroy, no Phyrax warships descending upon them. The crew sat in the dimly lit mess hall, scattered around the long table, plates filled with the best rations they had—supplemented with the fresh food from the island.

  The mood was lighter. No strained silences. No tense shoulders. Just people who had fought and bled together, sitting side by side, sharing the weight of what they had endured.

  Nathan leaned back in his chair, watching the people around him. Ortega was telling a story, something wild about a botched recon mission that ended with him hijacking a cartel’s helicopter and flying it upside down through a storm. Sinclair was shaking his head, unimpressed, while Rafael defended every questionable decision he had made.

  "You had one job, Ortega," Sinclair muttered, stabbing a piece of fruit with his fork. "Get in, get the intel, get out. Not, I repeat, not steal a helicopter and turn it into a goddamn amusement ride."

  Ortega smirked. "We got the intel, didn’t we?"

  "Yeah. And nearly redecorated the desert with our insides."

  The crew laughed, their voices echoing softly through the steel walls.

  Elisabeth, sitting a little apart from the rest, allowed herself a small smile. She was still an outsider, she knew that. She had betrayed them—even if unintentionally, even if manipulated. The crew hadn't fully forgiven her, but she was still here. She still fought alongside them. And she would prove her worth, not with words, not with apologies, but with action.

  She had stopped trying to overcompensate. Stopped trying to force redemption down their throats.

  Instead, she was just present.

  Nathan glanced at her, catching the faintest flicker of something in her eyes. He had noticed it on the island—the shift in how he saw her. The walls she had built weren’t out of deception, but out of necessity. He wasn’t sure when, exactly, he had stopped seeing Ward the science officer and started seeing Elisabeth, the person. But it had happened.

  And he was okay with it. Sinclair took a slow drag from his cigar, exhaling as he glanced at the gathered faces. "You know, you kids don’t know real war stories."

  Ortega grinned. "Oh yeah? What, you gonna tell us about the time you took down a dictator with just a toothpick and bad breath?"

  Sinclair smirked. "First of all, it was two toothpicks. And second—shut up and listen."

  The tone shifted. A quiet reverence settled over the table.

  Nathan straightened, his eyes narrowing. He had known Sinclair for a long time, but Sinclair never talked about his past. Not really. Not like this.

  The old man leaned forward, resting his elbows on the table, rolling the cigar between his fingers. His voice was lower now. Rougher.

  "I wasn’t always this good-looking," he began, a wry smile tugging at his lips. "Believe it or not, I was just some reckless, angry kid who had no idea what the hell to do with himself. War… war shaped me. The missions, the black ops, the things I did for my country… for the world. That’s what people say, right? We fight for a cause. For something bigger than us."

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  He scoffed.

  "But sometimes, you don’t fight for some noble goddamn cause. Sometimes, you fight because it’s the only thing you know how to do."

  The room was silent.

  Sinclair exhaled, eyes distant.

  "I had a friend once. Best man I ever knew. Gregory Henshaw. We were kids together, then soldiers together. Survived hell together. And when we got out? I watched him fall apart. I watched him bury himself in a bottle after his wife died, watched him lose himself. And worst of all, I watched him forget that he had two sons who still needed him."

  Nathan felt his breath hitch.

  Elisabeth’s eyes flickered to him, but he didn’t move.

  Sinclair continued.

  "You know what pissed me off the most? Not that he was broken. Not that he drank. Hell, I drink. But that he gave up. He let himself become nothing. And he left his boys to fend for themselves."

  He turned his gaze to Nathan, something unspoken passing between them.

  "I told myself I wouldn’t let that happen. Not to Julian. Not to Nathan. Someone had to be there for them. And when Julian enlisted, when Nathan enlisted—I was there. I trained them, I kept them sharp, I made sure they didn’t fall through the cracks."

  Sinclair’s voice tightened, just slightly. "I was there when Julian died."

  Nathan stared at the table, jaw clenched.

  Sinclair took another slow drag from his cigar. "I’ve seen men die. I’ve seen good men die. But nothing hits like watching someone you love bleed out in the dirt, knowing there’s nothing you can do to stop it."

  He didn’t say anything for a long moment.

  Then, quietly: "I see him every goddamn day."

  Nathan’s fists were clenched so tight his knuckles turned white.

  Sinclair sighed, shaking his head. "That’s the thing about war. It doesn’t end just because the battle’s over. The ghosts stay with you. And you carry them."

  The room was utterly still.

  Then, Rafael Ortega—never one for heavy emotions—let out a breath and leaned back in his chair.

  "Well… shit."

  Elisabeth, who had been silent the entire time, finally spoke. Her voice was soft, but steady.

  "I don’t think war ever truly leaves anyone," she said. "But I also don’t think we have to let it define who we are."

  Sinclair studied her.

  And, to his own surprise, he nodded.

  Nathan finally let out a slow breath, unclenching his fists. He reached for his drink, took a long sip, then set it down with a decisive thud.

  "Alright. Enough doom and gloom. Ortega, tell us the dumbest thing you’ve ever done in combat."

  Ortega grinned. "Oh, buddy. I got plenty."

  The room slowly filled with laughter again.

  The weight hadn’t vanished. The ghosts were still there. But for a moment—for just one moment—Deep Crown wasn’t a war machine, and its crew weren’t soldiers.

  They were just people.

  And sometimes, that was enough.

  As the gathering broke apart, Elisabeth caught Nathan’s gaze. She hesitated—then walked up to him.

  "I need to go," she said.

  Nathan studied her. "Where?"

  "With Kaelen," she admitted. "If we’re going to win this war, we need to know more about our allies. About the Vey’Narii, their history, their technology, everything."

  Nathan was silent for a long moment.

  Then, finally, he nodded. "Go."

  Elisabeth turned to leave, but hesitated. She met his gaze once more.

  "Thank you," she said.

  "For what?" he asked.

  She smiled, small but sincere. "For seeing me."

  And then, she was gone.

  Nathan exhaled, watching her disappear down the corridor.

  Sinclair, standing beside him, chuckled. "She’s a stubborn one."

  Nathan smirked. "Yeah. Guess that makes two of us."

  And with that, the night ended.

  But the war was just beginning.