When the elder finishes, I stand. My legs feel like steel girders. I clear my throat. My voice comes soft but steady.
“I, Sorala?Rynn, do hereby offer my testimony. Not to the Alliance tribunal, but through Vakutan independent counsel. I testify to the existence of undocumented wartime orphans, to my own erased record, to the child I carry and raise outside the system. I testify to the truth of our history and the will to build something new.”
There are nods. Some faces blank. Some curious. Some approving. I feel the weight of every eye, and I sit again.
Vael wraps his arm around me. I lean into him. The scent of his jacket—gear-oil, ozone, skin—grounds me.
When we leave the hall, the wind hits me stronger. I don’t blink. I exhale a slow breath I didn’t know I was holding.
He touches my cheek. “We did it.”
I look at him. “Yeah.”
I whisper: “We’re not running.”
He nods. “Not again.”
There we stand: side by side. The sea behind us, the stars ahead. The future not promised—it’s ours to shape.
We won’t run. Not ever.
______________________________________________________________________________
The chamber smells of polished stone and recycled air, the cold hum of ventilation masking whispers that travel beneath the floor. I stand at the threshold, heart lurching in that familiar rhythm — not panic, butpresentation. I straighten my shoulders, feel the slight grit of sand from the coastal settlement still clinging to my boots, and I remind myself: this isnota courtroom of justice. It’s a forum of power. I’m not here to plead. I’m here todeclare.
Behind me, Vael stands tall, his cybernetic arm half-concealed beneath the sleeve of his tunic. His eyes meet mine, just for a moment, and I feel the weight of his trust. Ofourtrust. Then the doors slide open, low and heavy, and we step in together. Sterile lighting washes over us in harsh white. The basin of the chamber slopes upward around us — gallery seats filled with delegates, diplomats, scientists from intersecting fields of ethics, genetics, treaty law. Cold eyes. Calculating. Some curious, some skeptical.
The podium at the far end is glacial-silver with insignia of the Vakutan legal council etched in. Two moons’ symbols, overlapping, the ocean wave beneath. I inhale the scent of the metal and the subtle tang of tech-oil. My throat goes dry for a moment. But I swallow. Clear my voice.
“Good cycle.” I begin. My tone measured, the accent soft but firm. “My name is Sorala Rynn. I stand before you as a mother. Not as a fugitive. Not as a victim. As a mother.”
A murmur drifts through the gallery — light, cautious. I feel my pulse in my ears. But something steadies me. The salt-wind, the star-lit nights, the sea’s infinite rhythm. I carry those with me into this chamber.
“I carry a child whose existence the Alliance deemed untraceable. My identity, once erased, is now archived inblack-box files you may never see. I lived years in hiding, fought battles I did not choose, and survived for one purpose: her.”
I pause. My eyes scan the cold-lined faces of the council, the scientists in their crisp uniforms, the diplomats with their folded arms. One woman, moderator, high cheekbones, notes every word without emotion. I imagine she’s questioning my credibility. My motives.
“But this is not a tale of oppression. It’s a testament of love.” I raise my hand slightly and feel the faint vibration of the datapad in my pocket. The recorded files. The logs. The scars I bear. “Because love did not hide. It did not flee. It remained.”
I step away from the podium. Vael joins me. I place a hand on his back. He turns to face the council. He steps up to the plate. I release my hand from his back, but not from his presence. He doesn’t need me to speak, but he needs me to stand beside him.
“Honor-guards and councilmen,” his voice resonates clear. “I, Commander Vael Draykorr, do not stand here to recount wars. I stand here to envision peace. To build a future not balanced on the edge of a blade, but anchored by home.”
The gallery listens. No sneers now. No whispering. The chamber tilts toward us, curious.
“We recognize that our child—your child—stands at the intersection of two worlds: my heritage, hers; and hers, the galaxy’s. We ask not forgiveness for the past, but recognition for the future. She is not a weapon. She is not an experiment. She isours.”
I feel moisture at my eyes. I bite down. I won’t turn this into spectacle. I wipe a hand at my throat.
Then they call Nessa.
I take her hand. She stands between Vael and me, small but unbowed. The gallery quiets. The soft hum of ventilation fades—replaced by the raw presence of a child entrusted with her truth.
One delegate asks: “Child Rynn-Vael, how do you see yourself?”
She inhales. Her voice is calm, steady, not the lilt of a toddler but the clarity of someone discovering their place.
“I am both.”
