“Yes.”
“And if you do not?”
“I lose clearance,” I say. “Diplomatic access. Intelligence privileges. My career.”
Silence settles over the room like fine ash.
Kael studies me with that same measured attention he gives a battlefield—searching for hesitation.
“There is no shame in self-preservation,” he says quietly.
“I know,” I reply.
“And you owe my people nothing,” he continues.
“I know.”
“Then why are you still standing here?” he asks.
Because neutrality is fiction.
Because I watched Valen model species extinction like a manageable cost.
Because I saw Kael tear through steel for me without flinching.
Because I do not barter people.
I do not say all of that.
Instead, I let the League message expire on my screen.
The timer blinks once, twice, then fades into archival gray.
“I do not respond,” I say.
Rethan exhales slowly. “They will interpret silence.”
“Let them,” I reply.
Another media feed surges across the room.
“—League silence on Vance’s status raising questions—” a commentator says. “Some view her as whistleblower. Others as radicalized asset.”
The coverage has sharpened since the ritual. My name scrolls across Alliance networks in equal measure with Kael’s. Some outlets run split-screen images of us—the broadcast chamber, the arena platform—framed in either scandal or defiance.
“They are reframing you hourly,” Rethan observes.
“Yes,” I say.
Kael steps closer, close enough that I can feel the heat radiating off him again. The sedative has worn thin; the edge of pain creeps back into the lines of his mouth.
“You have not answered my question,” he says quietly.
“I have,” I reply.
He waits.
“I am not going back,” I say.
