The room has gone still except for the rain and the distant glassy rush of a train passing somewhere beyond the building. The projected statute text drifts between us in pale blue layers, washing all of us in ghost-light.
“Visibility doesn’t make retaliation harder,” I say quietly. “It makes it prettier.”
No one answers immediately.
Because they know I’m right.
Public sentiment has not settled into anything clean. It has curdled into factions and symbols and ugly little civic shrines. There’s protest graffiti near the old tribunal complex now—images forwarded to me by people who either think I should know or enjoy watching my blood pressure spike.
ARDENT BROKE THE PEACE.
TRAITOR TO THE DEAD.
TRUTH KILLS CEASEFIRES.
And then, on the other side of the same city, reform groups circulate my Kirell corridor modeling slides as educational material. Students annotate them. Journalists quote them. Civic workshops use them as case studies in procedural ethics. My name is either warning or banner depending on which block you’re standing on.
I’m too tired to be either.
“I’ll consult,” I say at last. “Privately. On drafts. On chain integrity. On disclosure language. But I’m not taking a leadership title, and I am not becoming your mascot.”
Pavel raises both palms. “Fair.”
Nera nods, though disappointment flashes across her face before she smooths it away. “Consulting access only. We can work with that.”
Talis studies me for one long, measured moment. “You believe the hostility around your name remains operationally dangerous.”
“Yes.”
“That was elegantly phrased,” I say.
“It is one of my flaws.”
Rhyx crosses from the kitchenette then, carrying a fresh mug of tea that steams in the low light. He sets it by my elbow without comment.
The scent rises warm and earthy—ginger, black leaf, something faintly floral I can’t name. The heat from the cupseeps into my hand when I curl my fingers around it, and only then do I realize how cold I’ve gotten.
Nera watches the exchange and, to her credit, says nothing stupid about it.
Instead she opens her compad and pulls up the final item. “The memorial dedication.”
That lands somewhere behind my ribs.
The room shifts with it.
On-screen, the Kirell memorial reconstruction rotates slowly in three-dimensional rendering: dark stone planes, restored corridor paths etched in light, name walls integrated along the outer curve instead of hidden in some auxiliary annex the way they were originally proposed.
Full civilian casualty acknowledgment.
Publicly restored.
I stare at the rendering until the edges blur.
Pavel slides a sealed invitation across the table. Thick card stock, actual embossed lettering. Very solemn. Very League. Verywe would like to acknowledge your suffering in a way that remains administratively tasteful.
I open it.
Selene Ardent — invited as Civilian Casualty Representative
