Page 58 of The Mercenary's Hidden Heir
Joren peeks out from behind her, quiet and wide-eyed.
Traz crouches down, big and careful, so he’s eye level with them.
"Good setup," he says. "But every captain needs a good gunner too."
Aria’s eyes light up.
"You wanna be my gunner?" she demands, hands on her hips.
Traz chuckles low, the sound rumbling through the yard.
"Best shot you’ll ever have, little warrior," he promises.
She beams like he hung the damn sun.
Joren stays back, shy.
Nervous.
I recognize that fear—the instinct to hold yourself small, to stay quiet so you don’t get hurt.
I lived it.
Still living it, some days.
Traz notices too.
He doesn’t push.
Just lets Aria chatter and climb and boss him around while Joren watches from a safe distance.
He throws glances at the boy, small and patient, like he’s laying a bridge stone by stone instead of trying to drag him across.
And somehow... somehow that hurts more than anything.
Because he gets it.
He gets them.
He gets me.
Even after all the time and distance and pain.
He still knows how to reach the broken parts.
Later, when Aria’s occupied building some kind of "turbo blaster" out of pipe scraps, Joren drifts closer to Traz.
He fiddles with the frayed hem of his shirt, not looking up.
"Did you really fly ships?" he mumbles.
Traz crouches down again, arms resting on his knees.
"Yeah," he says. "Flew a lotta junk heaps worse than this one."
Joren's eyes flicker up, wide with wonder.
"Did you ever go to the stars?" he asks, voice small.
