The champagne flutes clink like tiny bells in every corner of the Justice Ministry lounge, laughter rising and falling like lazy surf on a shore I can’t reach. They're celebrating. Toasting. Calling me the “savior of Glimner.”
But inside, I’m a vacuum.
Hollow.
The air smells of synthetic citrus, expensive and impersonal, trying too hard to erase the scent of law clerks who’ve sweated through twenty-hour shifts. I nurse a flute of something effervescent and pink, the sweetness cloying on my tongue. My smile feels borrowed, fragile. The kind of smile you wear at a funeral.
Because I didn’t win. Not really.
The Nar’Vosk evidence didn’t come from legal sleuthing, diligent groundwork, or moral perseverance. It came in a black box with a red dot. A whisper from the underworld. A ghost in Aebon’s pocket. And I never asked how he got it.
I haven’t reported it either.
I haven’t even filed a statement flagging it as an anonymous tip. No chain of custody. No declaration of source. Just a glowing cube dropped in my lap and a silent understanding.
Aebon made this happen.
He bent the world and delivered it to me gift-wrapped in blood and shadows.
And I said thank you by keeping my mouth shut.
Why?
Why didn’t I drag that cube down to internal affairs and scream until my throat bled? Why didn’t I demand an inquiry, cite the judicial code line by line? Why didn’t I burn it all down, like I swore I would if he ever compromised my integrity?
Because the truth is—I don’t want to.
Because the truth is—his arms still haunt me.
I feel them. Even now. Wrapped around me in the darkened archive hall, shielding me from a blast that could’ve torn me in half. The weight of him. The unyielding power, coiled like a beast and yet so gentle when he whispered, “You’re safe.”
And his eyes.
Those impossible red eyes, bright as murder, soft as absolution.
I should be afraid.
Iamafraid.
But it’s not fear of him anymore.
It’s fear of what I’m becoming.
My morals used to be iron. I built my life on them. And now... I’m dreaming of his voice, the way he calls me sweetheart like he’s branding it into my skin. I lie in bed at night replaying every word from that elevator—Because you like it.
I want to argue. I want to scream. But I can't.
Because he’s right.
And that, more than anything, is what terrifies me.
I swirl the champagne in my glass, watching bubbles rise and burst like hopes I don’t recognize anymore. Around me, the Ministry celebrates like a pack of wolves in silk. They see me as pure. Victorious. Golden.
But I know the truth.
I'm cracked.
And Aebon Rexx is the hammer that did it.
