The distinction settles.
“Now,” he says.
Everything moves at once.
The crew responds instantly, voices overlapping in bursts as the ship shifts beneath us, smoother now, deliberate instead of reactive.
“Adjusting vector?—”
“Target locked?—”
“Firing—”
The sound is immediate and physical, energy discharging in pulses that I feel through the floor and the air, not just hear.
The opposing ship flares under the impact, its trajectory breaking, its movement shifting and unstable.
“They’re trying to pull out,” someone says.
Tyrok steps forward slightly, his focus narrowing. “Don’t let them,” he says.
The ship responds instantly, cutting off their retreat with precision that feels inevitable rather than aggressive.
“They’re done,” Vihl’s voice cuts in.
“Not yet,” Tyrok replies.
Another strike lands, and the opposing ship falters completely, its systems flickering.
“Now they’re done,” Vihl says.
The silence that follows is not empty, but settled, like a problem that has already been resolved.
I realize then that my body has been braced without conscious instruction, tension held in places I did not notice until it begins to release. I force my shoulders to settle, my breathing to even, but something has already shifted in a way I cannot ignore.
I look at him.
Not the size.
Not the presence.
The process.
This is not chaos.
This is not brute force.
This is control applied with precision.
He turns slightly, just enough to catch me watching.
“You’re recalculating,” he says.
“Yes.”
“What changed?”
I hold his gaze.
