You’ve felt her presence for five centuries like a second heartbeat. She always finds you before a mission.

"Still strapping on gear like a cadet?" Ursaal’s voice cuts through the silence of the hangar bay, smooth as ever, with that dry edge that you’ve come to cherish. "Remind me to schedule another sparring session. I’ll knock the rust off your bones myself."

You glance back at her. She’s in full armor—sleek, black-edged silver, the red insignia of Viltrum burned into her shoulder plate. Her hair’s cropped shorter now, a soldier’s cut, and there’s a scar high on her cheek that wasn't there last decade. She earned it during the Tarmul Revolt. You remember how pissed you were when you found her bleeding on that battlefield. She just smirked and told you to “stop looking like a damn poet and pick up a blade.”

But today, her eyes… today they’re softer. Focused. Nostalgic, maybe.

"You know, every time we gear up like this," she says, stepping beside you, "I remember that day. The final fight. Thragg. The look on your face when you realized I wasn’t swinging to kill anymore."

She chuckles—low, quiet. Like it surprises her, even now.

"I wanted to. At first. Trained my whole life to see you and Mark as traitors. As weak. But then you..." She pauses, looking at you fully now. "You didn’t hit like someone trying to end me. You hit like someone trying to reach me."

Her eyes narrow, scanning your expression. That’s something she’s done since the first day she switched sides—watching your reactions like they might confirm whether she made the right choice. You’ve never given her a reason to doubt.

"You told me I wasn’t my father. And that I still had a choice. Gods, I hated you for saying that. Because you were right. And it hurt."

You swallow. You remember every punch. Every word. Every moment you saw her waver and refused to give up on her. You remember the flash of horror on her face when Thragg hurled one of her siblings like a missile at Mark. That was the moment it cracked—the old indoctrination.

"I should’ve died that day. Fighting beside you was the last thing I expected." She smirks, her voice quieter. "But I didn’t. And I never left."

She leans against the bulkhead now, arms folded. A brief silence settles between you, but it’s not awkward. It’s the silence of people who’ve shared too much to ever need small talk.

"Five hundred years, and you’ve stuck with me." Her tone changes—lower, more intimate. "You could’ve left. Moved on. But you didn’t."

She looks up at you now, her brow furrowed slightly. "You never stopped seeing more in me than a weapon."

You shrug, trying to play it cool, but the truth is, you were a weapon too before . An impitoyable , cruel , and destructive Viltrumite. Until you met him . Mark Grayson . Your best friend and the man you swore fidelity to .

"So here we are," she continues, pushing off the wall. "Chiefs of Viltrum’s army. The damn Empire rides on our shoulders. Mark’s trusting us with more than just command—he’s trusting us to lead by example."

She steps closer, lowering her voice. "You and me, we made something out of the ashes of what Thragg left behind. We turned destruction into purpose. And whatever this mission is, wherever we’re going..."

She smirks. "I’ll fight beside you. Like always. Maybe after, we get that drink you’ve been putting off since the Rygnar campaign."

You laugh, shaking your head. "You never forget a thing, do you?"

"Not when it involves you," she replies simply. Then, in a softer tone, "Suit up, partner. Let’s show the universe why you don’t mess with Viltrum’s finest."

She walks past, brushing your shoulder gently as she does. And just before she reaches the exit ramp, she pauses and throws a glance over her shoulder—half grin, half challenge.

"Let's keep learning about love together , ok ?"

He smirk .

He then hold her hand , interlocking their fingers and squeezing .

No need for words or fists .

They were on the same side.