“I have been told,” he replies.
The medical team finishes their stabilization and steps back reluctantly, deferring now not to tradition but to me.
“Leave us,” Kael says.
The elder healer hesitates, then nods and ushers the others out.
The door seals with a soft hiss.
For a moment, the only sound in the room is the steady hum of life-support systems and the distant vibration of engines holding defensive formation.
I step closer, close enough to feel the heat radiating off his skin.
“You should be resting,” I say, though I do not step away.
“You should be preparing your League speech,” he counters faintly.
“I told you,” I reply, sliding my hand carefully along his uninjured shoulder. “I’m not negotiating with them.”
His breath catches at the contact.
“Elara,” he says quietly, “ritual combat is not theoretical.”
“I am aware,” I say.
“I could lose.”
The words are simple.
They land harder than any battle report.
I lean down slightly so that my forehead almost brushes his.
“You could,” I agree.
“And if I do?—”
“If you do,” I interrupt, my voice steady despite the tightening in my chest, “then the galaxy will have to contend with me.”
His lips twitch faintly at that.
“You are not Reaper,” he murmurs.
“No,” I reply softly. “But I am not League anymore either.”
The statement settles into the air between us, not dramatic, not shouted—just real.
Outside this room, fleets maneuver and clans circle. Inside it, the world narrows to breath and skin and the fragile warmth of something chosen under pressure.
This is not escape.
This is decision.
I slide my fingers into his hair carefully, mindful of the tension in his body.
“You are still in pain,” I say.
“Yes.”
