“Well?” she asks.
“The channels are closed.”
Her expression changes in a small, profound way. Not surprise. More like a piece of vigilance she has carried for me finally deciding it can set itself down.
“Completely?”
“Yes.”
“No reserve nonsense. No emergency recall clause dressed up as patriotic poetry.”
“No.”
She nods once. “Good.”
Astera squints at me from the cradle of Selene’s arms with the severe concentration of an infant trying to determine whether my face remains an acceptable recurring feature.
I crouch beside them.
“She’s judging you,” Selene says.
“That seems healthy.”
“She got it from me.”
“Yes.”
Selene shifts slightly so I can slide one hand under Astera’s blanket without jostling her too much. Her skin is warm throughthe fabric. Tiny. Alarmingly complete for a person who still hiccups like a broken relay.
I glance up at Selene. “Public feeds say Vol’s conviction stands.”
She lets out a slow breath. “Good.”
“Reform measures advancing through structured review.”
“Good.”
“Fleets remain at standard posture. No retaliatory mobilization.”
That one lands differently.
We both feel it.
Selene looks out over the courtyard wall toward the unseen city beyond. “So we didn’t burn the quadrant down after all.”
“Apparently not.”
Her mouth curves. “Annoying. I had a whole dramatic speech prepared for the apocalypse.”
“I’m relieved I was spared.”
“No, you’re not. You love my speeches.”
“I endure them with discipline.”
“Liar.”
Astera makes a small sound of protest at the vibration of Selene’s laughter and Rhyx’s reply. I rest one finger lightly against the blanket over our daughter’s chest until she settles again.
