And somewhere above this chamber, senators are arguing about “diplomatic urgency” while a tribunal accelerates sentencing to outrun its own evidence.
I straighten slowly, and the movement makes the nausea flicker again, a warning tap against my ribs. I ignore it and keep working, because the only way I know to survive grief is to turn it into something sharp enough to cut through lies.
A soft hiss at the chamber door interrupts me.
I freeze, fingers hovering above the console.
The door opens, and the cold air shifts, bringing in the faint scent of security field ozone and the muted sound of boots in the corridor. Two tribunal officers step inside first, their posture rigid, eyes scanning the room. Behind them, Rhyx Varos enters with measured restraint, his binders emitting that faint blue shimmer that makes my teeth grind, because even now, even here, the building insists he be packaged as danger.
He looks larger in the dimmer light, his scales catching faint highlights like wet stone under moonlight, the old scars along his shoulders and forearms pale against the dark. His gaze lands on the projection above the table immediately, and I watch his attention tighten, the way a predator’s attention tightens, not hungry but focused.
“Liaison Ardent,” one officer says, voice formal. “Supervised review. Limited duration.”
“Yeah,” I answer, and the casualness in my tone is a small act of defiance. “I know how clocks work.”
The officer’s mouth tightens, but he doesn’t respond. He steps back to the door and remains there, a silent anchor of surveillance.
Rhyx approaches the projection table slowly, and the closer he gets, the more I feel the room change around him, like gravityshifts subtly when a larger body moves near. He stops at the edge of the projection field, eyes scanning the corridor line, the isolated segment, the blast radius gradient that stains the air red.
He exhales once, slow, and the sound is low enough to feel more than hear.
“That’s… recalculated,” he says.
“Yes,” I reply, my voice steady. “Expanded blast radius, corrected for convoy shield perimeter clearance.”
His head tilts slightly. “You went outside scope.”
“I live outside scope,” I say, and I hate that my voice shakes on the last word, because I’m tired and nauseated and furious and carrying too many secrets.
Rhyx’s gaze flicks to me, sharp. “You’re unsteady.”
“I’m fine,” I snap automatically.
His eyes narrow, the same look he gave me in the prep room when he called my bluff. “You’re not fine.”
I swallow hard, and the swallow hurts, because my throat is tight with everything I haven’t said.
“Look,” I say, gesturing to the projection because evidence is easier than confession, “this segment—C-23-Delta—this is where shuttle 447-A gets redirected. The model shows the corridor shift increases exposure by forty-three percent overall, but in this segment it spikes even higher because of the intersection with the artillery arc.”
Rhyx stares at the segment, and I watch his hands tighten slightly against the binders, the energy field humming a little louder as it responds.
“447-A,” he repeats, voice low.
“My parents,” I say, and the words are simple, brutal, and they hang in the air like smoke.
He goes very still.
For a heartbeat, neither of us speaks. The storage columns hum. The projection glows. The officers at the door breathe quietly, pretending they’re not listening while listening to everything.
Rhyx’s voice is quiet when it comes. “Selene…”
I flinch at my name in his mouth, not because it’s intimate, but because it’s human, and human is what this building keeps trying to grind out of us.
“Don’t,” I say sharply. “Don’t you dare do that soft voice thing at me. I didn’t invite you down here for sympathy.”
His gaze holds mine, steady, heavy. “Then why did you invite me?”
“I didn’t invite you,” I reply. “You were assigned a supervised review. You showed up.”
