I sign.
Rhyx Varos.
The document seals with a chime that’s too cheerful for what it represents.
Saal watches the confirmation flash. “You understand what you’ve done.”
“I do,” I say.
“You’ve cut yourself loose,” he says. “No command. No protection. No strategic relevance.”
I look up at him. “Good.”
His mouth tightens. “You’re going to stand in front of the tribunal again. And you’re going to indict League command.”
“I’m going to tell the truth,” I say, and my voice is steady now, anchored. “The Oversight Panel validated that this isn’t a personal vendetta. It’s systemic. My statement reflects that.”
Saal’s eyes harden. “You’re going to trigger consequences you can’t control.”
“I’ve been living with consequences I didn’t control for years,” I say. “At least this time, the consequences will be honest.”
He stares at me, then glances at the terminal where my draft statement hovers.
“And your loyalty?” he asks, quiet now. “Where does it lie?”
I take a slow breath. The air tastes like metal and old smoke.
“My loyalty used to lie with strategic positioning,” I say. “With preventing immediate catastrophe.”
Saal watches closely.
I continue, voice low. “Now it lies with transparency. With the people who died believing we were guiding them to safety.”
His jaw tenses. “That’s not how fleets survive.”
“Maybe fleets shouldn’t survive if they require lies like that,” I say, and the words feel like stepping into cold water—shock, clarity, pain.
Saal’s gaze flickers again, something unreadable passing behind it. Then he straightens, all business.
“High Command will not be pleased,” he says.
“I don’t live to please them,” I reply.
He turns toward the door, then pauses.
“One more thing,” he says, not looking back. “Ardent will be targeted. Not just by the League. By anyone who thinks her existence is a threat to their version of history.”
My throat tightens. “I know.”
Saal’s voice drops, almost reluctant. “If you care about her?—”
“I do,” I say, and the honesty in it makes my chest ache.
He nods once, sharp, as if he hates that he said anything at all. Then he leaves.
The door seals behind him with a soft hiss, and suddenly the room feels emptier, colder.
I stare at the renunciation confirmation on the compad, then at my statement draft on the terminal.
