Then — silence.
Cold, thick, absolute.
I stand still, every nerve vibrating with the echo of what just happened.
Kallus turns away from the prone body — not satisfaction, not gloating, just resolution.
“You don’t get glory for killing a dying man,” he says gently — as though speaking to a child who just learned how heavy truth can be.
I exhale, slow, letting the tension flee my shoulders like wind off a cliff.
Frederick, now unconscious, breathes shallowly — restrained, captured, no longer a threat.
“Tie him,” I say, “and let’s move out.”
Kallus nods — a subtle motion, solemn as dusk settling on ruin.
The hum of the medical chair winds down as we begin the work of securing him — neutralizing his gear, sealing his limbs, cutting off access to any networks he might still corrupt.
Outside this room, beyond the steel walls and humming machinery, the fortress continues its rude bustle. But in here —in this small, stark chamber — the threat that once haunted my worst nightmares isdone.
I watch Kallus work — deliberate, respectful of purpose and consequence.
My chest feels heavy, but not with hatred.
With understanding.
With finality.
And soon we will take Frederick back to those who can judge him properly — Earth, IHC, whatever system still has the standing to hold him accountable.
But right now, in this moment before judgment and ceremony, I feel something unfamiliar and precious:
Closure.
Not vengeance.
Not bloodlust.
Closure.
I glance at the unconscious man — this shadow of what once was — and for a brief flicker, I sense the ghost of regret in him.
Not repentance.
Just regret.
CHAPTER 34
KALLUS
The floor of the tribunal chamber feels cold beneath my boots, but it’s nothing compared to the chill running up my spine. It’s quiet here — too quiet — like the world is holding its breath before the verdict falls. Ten thousand eyes watch us, human and Reaper alike: emissaries, elders, observers, heirs of every clan, every species tangled in this war that started with hate and ended in revelation.
The air has that metallic tang — like rain on iron — a scent that always reminds me of the bridge of a warship moments before battle. It doesn’t make me tense. It makes meaware.
We stand at the center dais. Ayla beside me. Chelsea just behind her, chin up, eyes wide but steady as starfire. The accused — Frederick — is anchored to an elevated chair of reinforced restraints, his face still a patchwork of burns and grafts, eyes defiant but clearly hollowed out by time and consequence.
This chamber — colossal, angular, and etched with both Earth emblems and Reaper runes — feels like the spine of the universe itself. A place where justice is meant to transcend petty fear and yield truth. Today itmust.
