I turn my head slightly toward him. “You want me to swallow it.”
He meets my gaze, eyes strained. “I want you alive.”
Before I can answer, a soft chime from Drax’s compad announces an incoming call. She glances at it, frowns, and activates a privacy channel that nonetheless projects a small holo-display in the air: a Coalition envoy’s face appears, the image crisp and official.
Envoy Marrek Sohl—one of the ceasefire negotiators, a man whose smile never reaches his eyes.
“High Arbiter,” Sohl says smoothly, then his gaze flicks to me. “Commander Varos. I requested a private word, but it seems privacy is in short supply.”
Drax’s expression remains cold. “Speak.”
Sohl’s tone shifts, lowering into the careful cadence of diplomacy layered over threat. “Commander, I am advising you—strongly—to avoid escalating override allegations. The League will interpret such motions as hostile revisionism. They will assume the Coalition is attempting to rewrite the war narrative to delegitimize the ceasefire framework.”
I feel Pellorin’s tension spike beside me, because Sohl is not merely advising; he is transmitting the Coalition’s fear, the fear that truth will be treated as provocation.
“Sohl,” I say evenly, “I am not a Coalition mouthpiece.”
“Then stop acting like one,” Sohl replies, still smiling. “You surrendered voluntarily. You accepted League jurisdiction. If you now pivot to alleging League command interference, it will appear coordinated, whether or not it is.”
Drax’s gaze flicks toward me, sharp.
Pellorin murmurs, “He’s not wrong.”
I keep my eyes on the holo-image. “So your advice is what—shut up and let them hang me cleanly?”
Sohl’s smile tightens. “My advice is to prioritize stability. The ceasefire is not a philosophical artifact; it is a live wire. Pull it wrong, and we all burn.”
“Funny,” I say, and my voice carries a faint, bitter humor. “That’s exactly what people told the civilians in that corridor. Keep moving. Keep calm. Trust the system.”
Sohl’s smile fades. “Commander?—”
“I am not disavowing the override theory,” I say, the words landing with calm finality. “If there is evidence that a League clearance pushed civilians into a protected convoy lane, I will pursue it.”
Sohl’s jaw tightens. “Then you are choosing escalation.”
“I am choosing the record,” I reply.
The holo-display flickers slightly as his expression shifts into something colder. “Do not confuse personal martyrdom with strategic virtue.”
The channel cuts.
The room feels smaller in the wake of his absence, as if his warning left a pressure change behind.
Drax watches me for a long moment. “You heard him.”
“I did.”
“And you intend to proceed anyway.”
“Yes.”
Her mouth tightens. “Then you will do it through proper procedural channels.”
“I intend to,” I answer, and though the words are formal, the heat beneath them is not. “I will petition the tribunal to subpoena Admiral Caedrin Vol’s wartime directives.”
Pellorin’s head snaps toward me. “Rhyx?—”
Drax’s eyes narrow. “Admiral Vol is League. A subpoena of his directives will ignite political fire.”
