This war is not over. Not when ghosts still shout their names in my blood.
I will walk and speak again. I will bridge the silence between us. And I will carry her story forward—even if the galaxy never hears my name.
CHAPTER 25
AMY
The green room lights feel colder than usual. Sterile. Clinical. I’ve been here so many times that I could walk this corridor blind, but today it feels like walking into a trial.
Rex hovers by the door, his face drawn. He’s dressed sharp, business-pressure in every line of his suit. The sponsor’s exec is waiting in the conference room a floor up. They wantedge, they said. “Something bold.” He rubbed his jaw last night in the hallway: “Just don’t get us killed.” I told him that with the right scissors, you make people bleed — they’ll survive. He didn’t laugh.
I clutch the data slate in my hands. Footage. Timeline. Documents. And the pitch:The True Legacy of Kanapa. The truth they’ve erased. My throat feels raw, heart drumming a war cadence.
Rex draws me in, “You absolutely sure you want to poke this nest?” His eyes flick to the slate, the sponsor brand logo stenciled behind us. He can’t quite mask the worry.
I meet his gaze. My voice is steady, sharper than my nerves. “I never stopped wanting to.” There's no hesitation behind it. I mean it.
We go in. The sponsor execs sit behind a glass table, lights overhead glaring off polished surfaces. Their expressions are neutral. Calculating. They’ll be watching the bottom line.
I start. “This is not a smear. It's a restoration.” I lay out the timeline: the canyon patrol, Kanapa's orders, the mutiny, civilian deaths. I show footage I scrambled from hidden archives. Pixelated, but enough to see uniforms, shadows, movement. I map the chain of command, edits, orders. I show internal memos that survived—footnotes, revisions. I show them witnesses. I force their eyes on the ledger: the names they tried to delete.
You could hear a pin drop in that room. The execs pass glances. Their faces shift; some interest, some fear.
One asks coldly, “What’s your demand?”
I lean forward, tone calm but dangerous. “Publication. Uncut version. No redactions. No corporate censoring. Let it run — or I walk, and the leak goes wide.”
Someone near the back clears their throat. “That’s a big risk.”
“Truth is bigger,” I say.
Rex steps beside me, his jaw firm. “We both know what silence costs.” His voice cracks slightly, but he holds it.
The sponsors exchange a volley in uneasy glances. One nods. Another hesitates. Then: “Approved,” the first says. “Subject to legal vetting, but we greenlight.”
Hearts in throats. I clamp down the exhilaration that wants to flood out. Rex pats my shoulder. I swallow. We’ve opened a door, not passed through it yet.
Later, I arrive home. The apartment hallway smells faintly of lavender and soy from the diffuser I leave on low for Libra. The door unlocks. I slip inside. Footsteps echo in empty hall. The city hum presses at the windows.
Libra is in pajamas, hair a tousled halo. She stands in the doorway to the living room, eyes wide. “Mommy, did someone do something bad?”
I kneel to her level, catching the curve of her chin in my palm. She doesn’t know half the secrets I carry. “Yes,” I say gently. “And it’s time people knew.” I brush her hair back, kiss her forehead. She hugs me tight. I feel her breath hitch. I carry that moment like armor.
After she’s asleep, I pace across the apartment. The data slate hums on the rug. My fingers hover, itching to see what lies within. I know I shouldn’t do it before the legal team combs through it, but integrity waits for no one.
My holo-comm pings, “Anonymous transfer incoming.” My heart knocks. Could be any data leak or junk. Could be damaged. I open it. File list appears.
I double check the source: untraceable node. Deep web corridor. Scrolls down:DRONE_AMBUSH_RAW.MP4.
I download it anyway.
Footage loads. The canyon air, zoomed-in lens, jitter. Smoke, scorch marks. Suddenly, a massive scaled figure — impossible silhouette — flung sideways through blown dirt, crashing into trees. The camera shakes. Explosion knocks the lens. It blurs. But I saw it.
My breath catches. “Darun?” I whisper. I know I shouldn’t hope so hard. I press replay. Pixel shimmer. Frame by frame. Yes — that tail, that posture. That impossible weight. It’s him.
Tears sting my cheeks. My hands tremble. The slate slips from me. I catch it. I press it to my chest. The recording flickers, then fades to static. I stand in the darkness, heart pounding. And in that flicker, I feel both ruin and promise.
I tell myself, wishful thinking. A dream. But I also know, it’s not impossible. That shape. That signature. I won’t pretend. I won’t deny it.
