The screen reflects my own face faintly over the headlines. Older than I remember being. Less armored. More tired in ways I no longer need to hide.
Behind me, the baby monitor chirps once, then again.
I rise immediately, because whatever else civilian life has done to me, it has made that sound the center of gravity. I cross the room, check the feed.
Astera is awake but not yet angry about it.
Her dark eyes are open, fixed with intense suspicion on the mobile above her cradle as if she has already concluded the stars are poorly managed. One fist has escaped the blanket wrap and is waving around with tiny, furious authority.
“Unacceptable conditions,” I murmur.
She makes a tiny snorting sound at the monitor, which I choose to interpret as agreement.
I don’t pick her up yet. Selene has her outside.
The monitor is only a backup because I am incapable of trusting not having backups.
I move to the kitchen, pour the tea that’s been waiting in the pot, and take it to the window.
The courtyard behind the house is still wet in the seams where the morning shade held on longer. Afternoon light spills across the stone path in warm rectangles. The scrub along the low wall has grown in thicker over the last weeks, green pushing through the careful geometry of the place like life always eventually does when no one is bombing it. A few narrow planter beds run along the fence line—Selene’s attempt at herbs, my attempt at not insulting them with overwatering, mixed results so far.
And there she is.
Selene stands near the bench under the side wall with Astera in her arms and sunlight at her back, talking to our daughter with the grave seriousness of a woman presenting evidence before a very small and deeply unreasonable court.
I cannot hear the words through the glass, but I know the shape of her mouth when she’s being dry on purpose. I know the slight lift of one brow. The way she shifts her weight when the child gets heavy in one arm and she refuses to admit it. The way Astera’s tiny hand has somehow found the collar of her shirt and is holding on with all the instinctive force of the newly arrived.
Selene tips Astera up just enough that she can see the sky over the courtyard wall.
The child blinks, then squints, then makes the tiny offended face that means the sun has committed a personal insult.
I laugh under my breath before I can stop myself.
The tea tastes like ginger and black leaf and the quiet after weather.
I rest one shoulder against the window frame and watch them.
This, more than the headlines, tells me what I need to know.
I chose life over sacrifice.
I do not mean I chose my own life over death. That part happened earlier, messier, before I fully understood what I was doing. I mean I chose the version of truth that still made room for continuity. Chose domestic infrastructure over theatrical martyrdom. Chose a child-safe latch over a last command. Chose not to turn one more revelation into a detonator just because some old, ruined part of me still believes war is the most honest language pressure can speak.
And the galaxy did not ignite for it.
That still surprises me, if I am honest.
Not because I thought peace would fail the moment I let go of command.
Because command teaches you to distrust anything that survives without violence holding it upright.
But here it is.
Imperfect peace. Civilian review. Legislative reform inching forward like a creature too cautious to be cute. Vol convicted. Fleets quiet. The sky over our courtyard empty except for birds and one transit glint too far west to matter.
I think of the old logic—acceptable losses, strategic thresholds, equilibrium preserved by sacrifice imposed on people whose names could be hidden later if necessary.
I think of Kirell.
