The projection collapses. The chamber noise rises again.
Pellorin folds his arms. “There. Public position established. If the League responds in kind, mobilization cools.”
“And if they do not?”
He glances at me. “Then this all gets uglier.”
I look back toward Selene.
She has shifted to another panel station now, leaning over a spread of layered displays with Mirov at her shoulder. Her braid has loosened slightly near the nape of her neck. One dark strand has escaped and keeps brushing her jaw when she turns her head. She tucks it back absently, not vanity, just irritation. Her expression is focused in that particular way I have come to recognize—still on the outside, burning underneath.
“Do not look at her like that in public,” Pellorin mutters.
I do not move my gaze. “Like what?”
“Like she is the first thing you have seen clearly in years.”
That brings my eyes to him.
He lifts one brow. “I am not blind, Rhyx. Merely overworked.”
Before I can answer, a court officer approaches the partition and inclines her head.
“Commander Varos,” she says, then corrects herself with visible effort. “Varos. Custodial status remains unchanged while deliberation proceeds.”
“Understood.”
She looks relieved that I am not going to make her repeat it. “You are to remain seated unless instructed.”
Pellorin’s tone goes silk over steel. “Will there be access to the closed-chamber procedural summary?”
“When cleared,” she says.
“That was not my question.”
Her expression flattens. “When cleared.”
She moves away.
Pellorin watches her go. “Every institution, when frightened, becomes obsessed with doors.”
“Doors can be useful.”
He gives me a dry glance. “Not when you’re on the wrong side of all of them.”
At the bench, Drax rises. She speaks briefly to the oversight chair, then descends the side steps with one aide and crosses toward the Coalition delegation area.
Pellorin straightens. “There.”
Drax does not move like someone in crisis. That may be the most alarming thing about her. Even now, with her tribunal publicly stripped open and the press gnawing at the walls, she moves with the cool efficiency of a blade being resheathed.
She stops before the Coalition envoy who has remained apart from Merrow’s broadcast team. Vakutan. Older. Silver at the ridges. Diplomatic sash instead of military dress. Envoy Tarev, if memory serves.
They exchange no visible courtesies beyond the minimum.
The chamber is too loud and the partition too well insulated for me to hear the words, but I can read posture. Tarev’s shoulders are set for negotiation, not confrontation. Drax’s chin is lifted just enough to say she will not be leaned on. One of her hands rests lightly against the data slate she carries, fingertips steady. Not clenched. Not defensive. Precise.
“Verdict structure,” Pellorin says under his breath.
