“You demand economic submission dressed as peace,” he says.
The matriarch from Ilyr slams her palm against the table. “We did not fracture for this.”
“You fractured already,” I say quietly.
The words land hard.
She turns toward me. “You would concede what Vorthan bled to hold?”
“I would prevent Vorthan’s sons from bleeding next,” I reply.
Silence follows.
The Alliance advisor gestures to the projection again. “Without these concessions, Council hardliners will regain momentum. Mobilization resumes. You cannot sustain another full-scale engagement in your current state.”
He is not wrong.
Our fleet numbers are visible.
Reduced.
Still formidable—but not infinite.
Behind us, several Reaper representatives exchange heated whispers.
Clan Ilyr’s matriarch turns to me fully. “If you accept this, you legitimize their encroachment.”
“If I refuse,” I counter, “I legitimize annihilation.”
Her jaw tightens.
“You would trade territory for breath,” she says.
“Yes.”
The room vibrates faintly with distant civilian traffic passing through docking bays outside. Life continuing as if we are not here deciding which borders survive.
“Clan Ilyr will not accept territorial surrender,” she says finally.
“You are free to withdraw,” I reply evenly.
The words are calm.
They are final.
Her eyes flash.
“So be it.”
She rises.
Two smaller clan representatives stand with her.
“Clan Ilyr formally secedes from unified Reaper command,” she declares, voice steady despite the tremor of anger beneath it. “We will govern independently.”
The chamber records the declaration.
One by one, their avatars dim from the unified projection grid.
