I sit beside her, close enough to feel her warmth. “As long as I have you,” I say, voice rough, “I don’t care what changes.” I wrap an arm around her shoulders. She leans into me, breath shuddering. The room smells of her shampoo—jasmine and smoke.
She presses her forehead to mine, lips trembling but sure. “Then let’s do it,” she murmurs. Her hands clutch mine.
I draw her closer. “We will.” Libra is asleep in the next room, a soft murmur through the door.
Amy exhales, tension bleeding out of her. She turns out the lamp. Darkness deepens, thick with the city’s heartbeat. She liesdown, head on my chest, fingers still tangled with mine. Her breathing slows.
I stare at the ceiling, feeling the crystal heavy in my coat, feeling her weight on me, feeling the warmth of the home we’ve built against every scar. The secret still lives between us. But tonight, in this hush before the storm, I let myself believe in the calm.
CHAPTER 41
DARUN
I’m on the floor at Amy’s apartment, the carpet cool beneath my knees, Libra in front of me, building a tower of blocks. The room smells like fresh paint, dusty carpet, faint herbs from the rooftop greenhouse the day before. Amy’s curled nearby on the sofa, watching me and her daughter, a soft smile playing at the edges of things. The world outside hums — city noise, distant engines — but inside here, peace feels real, if fragile.
Libra looks up, counting blocks in a voice too patient for her age. “One, two, three…” She balances a bright red block on top.
I lean in, steadying the tower. “Four,” I say. “Steady.” My voice is soft. She beams. Amy claps quietly. My heart twins in my chest.
Then there’s a sound — a low hum, unfamiliar, electric in the corridors. The apartment seems to hush. The rear windows rattle faintly. I slide to my feet. Libra watches me, uncertain. Amy straightens. Her eyes flick to the window.
A sleek black transport hovers outside, lights off, almost invisible against the dark sky. The hum of anti-gravity deepens. My pulse thunders in my ears. It’s not just any ship.
Amy and I move toward the windows — careful, silent. The glass shakes slightly. The ship’s side panel glides open. Standingin the doorway of that craft is a figure in uniform: General Dowron. Perfect posture. Clean lines. Edges razor-sharp. His eyes — cold glass among snow — reflect the lights drifting across his chest plate.
He steps down onto the balcony. No guards. No announcement. The gravity of presence presses in. I step forward, instinct bristling, while Amy strides in behind me, protective.
Dowron bows once, tight. “Sergeant Darun,” he says, voice soft but carved of steel. “May I come in?”
The black transport door slides shut behind him. The edges hiss. He steps into the apartment. The air tastes sudden cold — ozone, taut expectation, unspoken danger.
I swallow. “General.” My voice low. My fists clench.
He glances at Libra, who has frozen mid-construction. Amy has one hand on her shoulder. Dowron’s eyes soften fractionally. “I do not intend to harm your daughter, Ms. Matthews.” He turns to me. “Darun.”
I nod. “What do you want?”
He walks past the blocks, past the sofa, straight into the living room’s heart. The lights flicker with his motion. The brass of his uniform catches. He stops near the window.
His voice is even. “I am here as warning and counsel.” He pauses. “Kanapa’s crimes — if fully exposed on your broadcast — will not be contained. The war will fracture, worlds will secede, billions may die. You understand that weight better than most.” The room contracts.
I feel every syllable. My jaw clenches. I taste dust, fear, something acidic in the back of my throat. Amy stands behind me, light pressed behind her, protective.
He turns to her. “Ms. Matthews’ show — this interview — is a powder keg. One word from Darun, one shift in tone, and the Alliance can hold. Or collapse.” His eyes flick to mine. “You haveleverage.” His voice quivers with menace, or perhaps necessity. “Use it well.”
My fists unclench. I inhale. I want to scream. I want to bleed truth everywhere. But his next words land like cold iron.
“You should understand — stability has a premium.” Dowron steps closer, gaze sharp under briefing mirrors. “If you push too far, you threaten more than reputations. Do you believe the Alliance is perfect? No. But ruin is not a cure. Let this be your altar, not your executioner.” He raises a gloved hand. “You will deliver your interview. The narrative will shift. But you will not obliterate the system. Not yet.”
He bows, turns, strides to the transport door. The hatch opens, wind gusting. He steps out. The door slides shut behind him.
The balcony rumbles. City lights blur. The hum fades. The ship lifts. Leaves drift. The glass settles. The apartment feels heavy. The scent of herbs and warm food no longer shields the weight in the air.
I stand rooted. Libra stirs — the blocks tumble to floor. Amy rushes to me, hand trembling.
“Darun?” she whispers.
I turn, face pale, lips parted. Her face is afraid.
