She hesitates. Then, quietly: “That’s not true.”
The silence after that is heavy.
I let it hang there because I want her to feel it — the same suffocating weight pressing down on me.
“What happened to you?” I finally ask. “After Luria.”
She turns away. “It’s not important.”
“Don’t lie to me.”
“I’m not lying.”
“You’reavoiding.”
Her shoulders stiffen, the faint tremor in her voice betraying what her words don’t. “You were gone, Vael. Everyone was gone. The war ended, the Alliance cut its losses, and I?—”
She stops. Her jaw tightens. “I moved on.”
The words hit like shrapnel.
I don’t let her see it.
“Moved on,” I repeat, voice low. “That simple.”
She looks at me then — really looks.
“Nothing about it was simple.”
There it is. That crack in her armor.
For a heartbeat, the woman I knew is right there — fierce, alive, trembling on the edge of confession.
Then she blinks, and she’s gone again.
I push myself upright, ignoring the protest from my ribs. “You could’ve told me you were alive.”
Her lips press into a line. “You could’ve stayed dead.”
That one lands clean.
I laugh — short, sharp, ugly. “You always did know how to hit below the armor.”
“Lie back, Vael.”
“I’m fine.”
“You’re not.”
“Then fix me.”
Her eyes flash. “That’s what I’m trying to do.”
I don’t think she means the physical kind.
Neither do I.
She steps closer, holding a scanner. The device hums as she waves it over my chest. Her hand is steady, but I can feel the tension radiating off her.
