“Maybe.”
But the word feels hollow.
Because the look on Bron’s face when he left the corridor last night hasn’t left my mind.
Shock.
Pain.
And something worse.
Understanding.
The moment he realized I hadn’t told him about Jesse because I didn’t trust him to be the kind of father our son deserved.
I press my fingers against my temple and try to focus on the strategy tablet again.
It doesn’t work.
Because the question I’ve spent two years avoiding is suddenly impossible to ignore.
Did I make the right choice?
Jesse deserved stability.
He deserved safety.
He deserved a parent who didn’t treat danger like a hobby.
But watching Bron across the training floor now—calm, disciplined, deliberate—I feel a crack forming in the certainty that carried me through those early months of pregnancy and fear.
Dartha nudges my shoulder.
“You’re staring.”
“I’m observing.”
“Uh-huh.”
I close the tablet.
“Let’s hope he keeps that attitude for the next challenge.”
The arena briefing arrives midafternoon.
Captain Photonic stands before the assembled contestants with the theatrical enthusiasm of a man who clearly believes near-death experiences should be narrated like sporting events.
“Contestants!” he announces. “Today’s challenge will test endurance, cooperation, and nerve!”
The holographic map flickers into existence above us.
A canyon.
A massive one.
Jagged rock walls plunge into a deep ravine while narrow ledges snake along the cliffside. Suspended cables stretch across open air. Minimal equipment icons blink along the route.
I narrow my eyes.
