I don’t sleep.
I look up at the night sky, rain blurring stars. I think of the signal, the whisper core, the son who called.
And I wait.
All night.
Because I’m not leaving again.
CHAPTER 20
ARIA
Morning light filters through the thin curtains, pale and uncertain, like someone turned the volume down on the sun. I carry the tray quietly into the living room. Two mugs of tea — Earl Grey for him, chamomile with a hint of honey for me. The kettle still hums faintly behind me. Steam rises in lazy spirals.
He’s already seated having sat down moments after I let him in. Barefoot, jeans soaked from last night’s rain, hair plastered to his scalp in dark rivulets. The lines around his eyes are deep now, more than war-scars: loss-scars. I set the tray on the low table without a word.
Garma toddles in. Fresh from the nursery. Hair sticking up in soft little curls, eyes bright. He babbles something I don’t catch, reaches for the tea tray. I shift the tray just enough.
Naull freezes. In that fraction of a second I catch the flicker — full-blown shock, recognition, awe. He lowers his gaze to Garma. His face goes pale. The air between us cracks, the fragile calm we’d built wobbles.
“Good morning,” I say in too-light a tone. I take a sip of my tea. The warmth seeps through my fingers, comfort and constraint all at once.
Garma tugs my skirt. “Mama!”
I rise, lift him into my lap. He sniffs my mug. I blow a soft breath over the surface. “Not yet, little storm-baby.” I smile at him. He grins.
Naull watches. Doesn’t move. The scent of Garma hits him like an explosion — baby powder, that faint bronze undertone, sun-warm skin. The resemblance is so strong it nearly knocks the breath from me: Garma’s hands, Garma’s eyes, like duplicate starlight from a war-torn galaxy.
He doesn’t ask. I don’t explain. Words hang heavy and distorted in the space between the tray and the window.
We don’t talk about him. Not yet.
Instead, Naull clears his throat. “Tea?” he says, voice cautious. I hand him the Earl Grey.
We sit. Steam drifting. Garma claps and giggles. I rock him gently. The chair creaks under my weight.
“I heard,” he says after a moment.
I raise an eyebrow. “Heard what?” I ask.
“About the Corps’ new intel on Nexxus,” he says. “They’re mobilizing units in the outer perimeters. Rhavadaz-class anomalies flagged.”
I feel something turn inside me. Deficit of shock? Or recognition. I take a slow sip of my tea. It tastes like calm laced with tension.
“I assumed you were immune to all things military these days,” I say dryly.
“Assumed wrong,” he mutters. His gaze dips to Garma. “Especially not this.” He doesn’t elaborate.
I bite my lip. “The Whiplash project is still shut down,” I say. “Technically.”
His head lifts. “I heard. No pilot sync. System freeze.” He sips his tea.
I nod. “It won’t respond unless… well.” My throat tightens. “Until you or I are at the helm.”
He sets his mug down. “She’s waiting,” he says quietly. “And I don’t mean the machine.”
His voice echoes in the room. The statement lands us both across that cracked line between what wesayand what weare. I look out the window—rain glistened on the pavement again, drops gathering on the sill like silent sentries. The city outside is waking: traffic hum, café doors opening, distant shouts and children tripping in boots.
