Didn’t run.
That’s Mara.
When I round the final corner, I see it—the forcefield, humming low and deadly across the corridor like a thin sheet of water catching too much current.
Beyond it, the cell.
Mara sits on the bench. Back straight. Hands bound. Eyes closed.
And three guards.
Two flank the outer corridor. Armed. Posture sharp. But they’re not the problem.
The third stands in the middle.
Watching her.
Hands folded.
Expression unreadable.
Serat.
His coat’s longer than it used to be. Trimmed in gold. A sign of rank. Not pride. He doesn’t wear pride.
His shoulders haven’t changed. Square. Anchored. His head turns the second I step into the light, and those gray eyes lock on mine with the precision of a targeting system.
A slow smile curls across his face.
Measured.
Not mocking.
Just… knowing.
“Well,” he says, voice smooth as ever. “Tatek Solan. I was wondering when you’d show up.”
Serat doesn’t move.
Doesn’t raise a weapon. Doesn’t call out commands. He just studies me, arms still folded behind his back like he’s watching a lesson unfold.
I take one more step forward, just inside the perimeter of the field’s hum. It crackles faintly against the cuffs on Mara’s wrists. I can see her now, full-on—eyes open, spine straight, chin lifted like a blade.
She doesn’t speak.
Doesn’t need to.
Serat breaks the silence first.
“You’ve come a long way from the citadel walls,” he says in Vakutan, the old dialect. The one they stopped teaching after the schism. “Far enough that I wonder if you even remember what we were.”
I keep my voice low. Even. “I remember everything.”
He nods once, slowly. “Then you know what’s coming.”
I do.
But I want to hear him say it.
