We move to a village captured and used as a front line by both forces. A child’s testimony: “They told us to run—but when we ran, they shot us.” I stifle a sob in my throat. The studio is quiet, dark. I taste metal regret.
Darun’s hand slides into mine backstage for a moment. I squeeze it. His silence speaks.
We air others—journalists who were buried under orders, doctors forced to choose which lives to save, refugees forced into corridors of terror. The weave is grim, a tapestry of fallout.
Midway, I catch sponsor heads in the room. Their faces tense. The colors of their logos seem faint. The ads flicker. I feel the shift in air: profit breathing out fear.
After we close the segment, lights dim. The control room crackles. The staff exchange glances. The screen collapses to regular feed.
Backstage, I lean against a wall. My legs tremble. The hum of the studio fills me. Darun approaches.
“You were… fierce,” he says. His eyes burn.
I exhale, voice soft. “We have to be.”
Later, at home, I open the mailbox. Hate mail floods the bottom slot. “Ataxian Amy” slanders. Death threats. Rancid pleas, razor words. I read a few. My stomach churns. My skin flushes. Rage wants to rise. But I swallow it down.
I show Darun. He stands beside me, broad in the doorframe. His jaw tight. His face gravely. He doesn’t blink.
“Let them scream,” I say, lips set. “We’re louder.”
He nods. He reaches for my hand.
That night, Darun sits in the studio with me. Not on camera, but visible in a side frame. The screens cut to him when we talk transitions. His silhouette is muscle and patience. In his silence,there’s strength. Viewers notice. Comments light up:“Look at Darun supporting her.”“She has him.”“He’s her shield now.”
The sponsors mutter. The board frowns. But the audience watches. The voices buried are now heard. The noise outside grows. But inside the studio, in that quiet frame, our resolve is visible: two people against the gale.
After broadcast, when the lights go down, I find him in the hall.
“You held up better than I did,” I admit, voice raw.
He steps closer. “Because I believe you deserve this fight.”
I meet his gaze. “Because you believe in truth.”
We lean in, foreheads touching, ears murmuring promises. The night afterWar Without Heroes, the world rages. But in that moment between us, the air is soft, the ground is ours.
Tomorrow the storm returns. The backlash will tear. Sponsors pulling, nations seething. But for now, I let the lies crumble, let the wounded speak, let the silent roar. And I lean against the wind—not alone. Not silent. Not defeated.
We have no illusions of victory yet. But we have each other. And on that foundation, we build.
CHAPTER 58
DARUN
The gymnasium is crowded with parents, teachers, and the low dust haze of florescent lights. The air smells of varnished wood, old sweat, and fresh paper. I sit in the front row, Amy beside me, both of us clutching small program books. My heart hammers so loud I fear Libra will hear it in my silhouette. I half expect the walls themselves to whisper that I don’t belong.
Libra steps up to the podium. She’s bright in her uniform, hair pulled back, eyes wide with both pride and nerves. The lights glare. The crowd hushes. Amy slides her hand into mine. We both lean in, taut.
She begins to read, small voice catching:
“My family is brave. Brave because truth is heavier than silence. Brave because love survives when lies fail. My mother speaks truth in the night, even when the world screams. My father returned from monsters to find me. Together we plant seeds in ruins, build roots in storms…”
Her voice falters, tears in her throat, but she steadies. I swallow the rising lump in my throat. My clawed fingers dig into my jeans. Be still, I tell myself. Then the flush of pride ignites so hot I can’t stop it.
As she continues, I feel tears rim my eyes. I grip Amy’s hand harder. I watch her—the curve of her jaw, the rawness in her voice.
When she finishes, the hall erupts in applause. It boom-echoes. I stand before the last wave has died and walk onto the stage. I hug her tightly in front of everyone. My cheeks burn. I try to speak but can’t. Amy records it, shoulder shaking. Her sniffle echoes my own.
