Selene straightening slowly from the analyst station and pressing her fingers once to the bridge of her nose before resuming.
The muted click of a drone adjusting altitude overhead.
My own breathing, slower than the room deserves.
Pellorin eventually lowers himself into the adjacent chair with all the grace of a man whose back has been at war with furniture for years.
“You have become unbearable, by the way.”
I turn my head. “That seems late as an observation.”
“I mean specifically today.”
“How.”
He rubs his forehead. “Because you’re calm.”
“That troubles you?”
“It terrifies me.”
I consider that. “I am not calm.”
“No,” he says. “You are worse. You’re settled.”
The word lands closer to truth than I would prefer.
Because yes. Somewhere between Selene’s presentation and Merrow’s repudiation and Drax’s visible refusal to let this become a revenge script, something in me has settled.
Not into peace.
Into decision.
Whatever comes now, it will not be the old story. Not the one where I carry the whole weight because it is strategically tidy. Not the one where silence can still masquerade as duty.
Pellorin studies my face. “There it is again.”
“What.”
“That look.”
I turn away from him. “You are becoming repetitive.”
“And you are dodging.”
Before he can push further, a legal clerk hurries toward the partition with a tablet in hand. Her steps are measured, but the pulse in her throat is visible from here.
“Counsel Pellorin,” she says, “closed-chamber procedural summary.”
He takes the tablet at once. His eyes move rapidly over the text.
“Well?” I ask.
He reads another line, jaw tightening. “The deliberative framing has narrowed.”
“In what direction.”
He scrolls. “Toward institutional interference, non-retaliatory remedy, command de-escalation… and preservation of ceasefire architecture.”
