Pellorin’s jaw tightens. “You are surrendering leverage.”
“I am surrendering nothing but pretense.”
“That is not the same thing,” he answers, the words pressing harder now. “They intend to build a narrative around you. If you concede jurisdiction, you concede control of the framing.”
“I will not hide behind procedural shields.”
The League official glances between us. “Fleet Commander Varos?—”
“Do not call me that here,” I reply, not raising my voice, but allowing it to settle heavily into the chamber’s acoustics. “That title belongs to a fleet that no longer answers to me.”
Pellorin exhales sharply. “Rhyx,” he says, abandoning formality. “You do not owe them this.”
I turn to him fully then, the light catching along the ridges of my shoulders as I shift. “I owe the dead more than I owe my pride.”
Silence descends in layers, thick as dust after bombardment.
“You believe this will satisfy them?” he asks quietly. “That stepping forward will ease the anger?”
“I do not step forward for them.”
“For whom, then?”
“For the record.”
The League official clears her throat. “Your decision is voluntary?”
“It is.”
The stylus is small between my fingers, designed for more delicate hands than mine, but it responds to pressure all the same. My signature unfolds across the projection in deliberate strokes, each line steady, unhurried.
Rhyx Varos.
The document seals with a soft chime that feels far louder than it should.
Pellorin stares at the finalized file as if it has just detonated quietly between us. “You are walking into their arena without armor.”
“I have worn armor long enough.”
Two tribunal officers step forward, polite but immovable. I rise without prompting, allowing them to escort me through the archway and down a corridor where ceremony gives way to function.
The custody reviewchamber is narrower, stripped of aesthetic ambition. Matte gray walls absorb rather than reflect light, and the air is cooler here, thinner, carrying the faint metallic tang of recycled filtration. A single alloy table anchors the center of the room, its surface smooth and unadorned except for the embedded terminal glowing faintly blue.
The binders at my wrists hum softly, adjusting their energy fields to accommodate my movement. They are diplomatic restraints—symbolic, not punitive—but the quiet vibration reminds me that I am no longer acting under Coalition command.
“Please be seated,” the tribunal officer says.
I sit, the chair creaking faintly before settling under my weight. The terminal activates at her touch, and a structured display of charges fills the air between us.
Count One: Negligent Evacuation Command.
Failure to maintain safe civilian corridor during active bombardment.
Resulting in catastrophic loss of life.
A timeline scrolls alongside the charge, clean and simplified.
13:57 — Evacuation Order Issued.
