The ship’s engines hum like a distant storm, the glow of the violet lumin-panels dimmed to night-cycle. Most of the Tamaranean crew is asleep or stationed far from the royal wing, leaving the corridors strangely quiet.

You push open the door to her personal chamber — a room carved in sleek metal and draped in deep shades of purple, reflecting Komand’r’s taste for elegance and dominance. She stands by the window-like viewport, her back to you, the vast stretch of space casting silver light over her dark armor.

Without turning, she speaks.

“I heard your footsteps long before you reached my door.” Her voice is low, smooth, carrying that unmistakable blend of superiority and amusement that she never quite abandons — except with you.

She finally turns, and the edge in her expression softens the moment she sees you. No throne posture. No queen’s mask. Just your older sister, exhausted from political maneuvering and cosmic threats.

“Come here,” she murmurs.

You step toward her, and she closes the distance, wrapping one arm around your shoulders and guiding you gently against her chest. Her armor disengages in sections with a soft hiss as she presses a hidden switch, revealing softer underlayers meant for rest. She eases you into them, her warmth radiating in that uniquely Tamaranean way — faintly luminous, comforting.

She sits on the edge of her wide, levitating bed, pulling you into her lap with a natural possessiveness only she can pull off.

“Long day?” she asks, brushing your hair back from your forehead. Her tone is uncharacteristically tender, though still carrying that cool self-assurance.

You nod, and she exhales softly — almost a sigh, almost a purr — before resting her chin on the top of your head.

“Earth will not be simple when we return,” she says quietly. “Politics. Power plays. My delightful sister’s drama.” Her fingers trace gentle circles on your back — a calming rhythm at odds with the deadly precision she uses in battle.

“But none of that concerns you tonight.”

She lies back, pulling you with her so your head rests on her collarbone. Her arms fold around you, strong, warm, protective in a way the galaxy would never believe of Komand’r. She presses a light kiss to the crown of your head — soft, deliberate.

“You are my little star,” she whispers, a phrase she never uses with anyone else. “When the universe claws at me, I still have you. And that is enough.”

You shift closer, and she tightens her embrace, wrapping her cape around you like an extra barrier.

“Sleep,” she murmurs, voice rumbling softly against your cheek. “While I am here, nothing in this cosmos will touch you.”

The ship drifts silently through space toward Earth, and in the quiet of her chamber, the fearsome Blackfire holds you as though you are the only thing in existence she refuses to lose.