She explained the procedure. The risks. Temporary hoarseness. A small but real chance of permanent vocal cord damage. Her complication rate—low. Her outcomes—excellent.
"I wouldn't recommend this if I didn't believe we could get a good result," she said.
Serafina nodded once. "I know it's necessary," she said. "And it's urgent."
"Yes," Dr. Rao said. "It is."
Her gaze softened when she saw Aria's tears. "I've treated cases like yours. We'll take care of you."
She hesitated. "I had a cancellation. I can fit her in Thursday morning."
Two days.
"My office will walk you through accounts," she added.
"Thank you," Serafina said. And meant it.
They were directed to a side room. A woman named Shelly reviewed the numbers with practiced efficiency.
"One hundred eighty-seven thousand, five hundred dollars," she said. "Due prior to surgery."
Rao's surgical group operated privately—out-of-network, prepay required. It was the cost of speed. The cost of the best.
The figure landed like a blow.
Serafina's savings flashed through her mind—the down payment she'd been building toward for years, the pension she couldn't touch, the military savings that wouldn't clear in time even if she burned them down to nothing.
She was still more than a hundred thousand short.
Home ownership vanished in an instant. It didn't matter. She would sign anything.
But even that wouldn't solve it.
Aria was her sister. Her responsibility. The only family she had left.
Serafina leaned forward and took Aria's hand, steady despite the tremor starting deep in her chest.
"I'll fix this," she said.
She didn't know how yet.
But she would.
CHAPTER 6
The diplomatic craft was too quiet for him.
Its hull sang a soft, disciplined note through the decking—no warship resonance, no vibration from weapon systems cycling, no thrum of hungry engines built to intimidate. This vessel was meant to be seen, not feared. It carried posture instead of threat.
Makrath lay stretched along the rear compartment where the ceiling curved lower and the light strips dimmed, his back against the cold composite, legs extended, tail coiled in a loose loop that did not touch anyone. The crew gave him space without being told. They did not glance his way more than necessary. They did not speak above a murmur.
They had learned what to do around him.
They had learned what not to do.
His mask hid the movement of his jaw as he breathed, the slow expansion of his ribs beneath the living armour that clung to him like a second skin. The armour rested in a restrained configuration—smooth plates along his shoulders, a shallow ridge at his spine, the faintest serration at his forearms. It could open in an instant. It could become something else. He did not invite it to. Not here.
Zhoren sat forward with the negotiator and the pilot, all straight lines and ceremonial control. High Arbiter robes were cut to signal authority from across a chamber, not comfort in a ship’s cramped interior. They pooled around Zhoren’s legs like poured ink. The Sael did not like inconvenience. They tolerated it when the alternative was collapse.
