“I don’t want to stay here,” she says.
“I know.”
“They’re going to keep coming. Senate offices. media. reform groups. people pretending they care because now it’s useful to care.”
“Yes.”
“And if I stay, I’ll either get dragged back into it or spend all my time fighting not to be.”
I look at her steadily. “Then don’t stay.”
She huffs out a breath, almost disbelieving. “That simple?”
“No,” I say. “But clear.”
The reduced security detail keeps a respectful distance now, enough to intervene if the crowd surges, not enough to pretend we are not having this conversation in public. Somewhere behind us, a siren wails briefly and cuts off. The stone beneath my boots is still holding the last warmth of day. Above, the first stars are losing a fight against city light.
Selene studies me with that searching, unnervingly direct gaze of hers. “You really mean to leave.”
“Yes.”
“Tonight.”
“Yes.”
“With no title, no command, no plan except ‘neutral territory.’”
“I have a residency application.”
She blinks. “That is somehow more unhinged.”
“Pellorin might agree.”
That gets another quick, startled laugh.
Then she says quietly, “If I come with you, everything changes.”
Everything has already changed, I think. But I do not say it like that.
Instead I say, “It already has.”
Her eyes hold mine.
The wind moves around us. The crowd pulses. Commentary feeds keep flickering over the plaza in hard blocks of text and light. Somewhere down the steps, a chant starts and falters and starts again.
Selene’s voice is softer now, but no less steady. “Okay.”
One word.
Enough to alter the shape of the next several years.
“Okay,” she repeats. “We leave.”
I let out a breath I had not realized I was holding.
Not relief.
Something deeper and more dangerous than relief. Something that feels like stepping onto uncertain ground and discovering it holds.
