I cross to the door slowly. My heart’s thudding in my ears.
When it slides open, it’s just a delivery droid. Package from the school—Ben’s lunchbox. Left behind. The message reads:
Your child forgot this again. Might be time for backups. He claims he was busy drawing dragons.
I breathe. In. Out. And I laugh.
I open the box. There’s a crumpled picture inside. The dragon. Purple and gold, just like Jenna said. But in the corner, in shaky five-year-old handwriting, he’s labeled it:
Daddy.
And just under it, in smaller text:
I miss you.
He’s never said those words out loud. He’s never asked. Never pushed. Just accepted whatever story I gave him. That he came from a place of love. That his father was “far away.”
And now he’s drawingdragons. Dragons with gold horns.
Just like Jav’s ceremonial grolgath crest.
I clutch the picture to my chest.
I’ve lied. I’ve protected. I’ve rationalized.
But Ben’s not asking for the story anymore.
He’s drawing it himself.
And I don’t know how much longer I can keep pretending he doesn’t deserve to know it.
CHAPTER 2
JAV
Glimner, High-Security Tribunal Hall – Observation Chamber 7B
The chair’s too small.
It creaks under me like it’s got opinions about my size—and the chain-linked cuffs across my wrists ain’t helping. My tail’s jammed behind the damn seat, half-numb. I shift just enough to keep the blood flowing, then still again. The tech across from me watches like she’s cataloging every twitch. Her fingers dance over the lie detector console like she’s playing a song no one else can hear.
She wants me to squirm.
Cute.
“Please state your name for the record,” she says, voice smooth and practiced.
“Jav Kuraken.” I keep my tone even. Not too deep. Don’t want it setting off the ‘aggression filters.’ Never mind that the system’s just performative bull. None of this is real.
“You are aware that lying during this session will be considered obstruction of justice under Alliance Code 17.4A?”
“I’m aware,” I say. Then I smile. Just a little. Just enough tooth to make her shift in her seat. “I’m also aware this whole setup’s got more theater than the Vendrax opera house.”
Her nostrils flare, but she doesn’t take the bait.
The room smells like sterilized nerves—cold metal, recycled air, and a whiff of antiseptic meant to make people think the law is clean. It ain’t. Never has been.
“Proceeding with questioning,” she says, tapping her pad.
