The attacker lunges.
The blade arcs toward my throat.
I pivot, catching his wrist mid-strike. The impact jars my injured ribs, pain blooming sharp and white along my side. I twist hard, feeling bone give beneath the torque.
Another guard closes from the flank, driving a shock baton into the attacker’s exposed joint.
The attacker convulses but does not drop immediately. Determined. Fanatical.
I drive my knee into his midsection, then wrench the blade arm downward until the weapon clatters against the shuttle floor.
A final close-range shot ends it.
Silence collapses into the cabin.
The metallic tang of blood—mine, faint but real—mingles with scorched alloy.
“Captain,” the lead guard says, scanning me. “You are injured.”
“It reopened,” I reply, pressing my hand briefly against my side. Warmth seeps through fabric. Manageable.
The attacker’s armor bears no insignia. No clan markings. No Alliance identifiers.
Just absence.
“Unknown,” the pilot mutters.
“No,” I say quietly. “Intended.”
We return to the cruiser under heavy escort.
When I step into the war room, Elara is already there, eyes sharpening as she takes in the faint red seeping through my collar.
“What happened?” she asks, crossing the distance between us.
“Transit interference,” I say.
She reaches toward my side instinctively, then pauses, fingers hovering just above the wound.
“You cannot continue absorbing these tests alone,” she says softly.
“I do not,” I reply. “I absorb them with guard.”
“That’s not what I mean,” she says.
Her eyes search mine—not for weakness, but for recognition.
“Trade convoy attacked,” Rethan adds. “Assassination attempt during transit. Unknown actors.”
Her jaw tightens. “Coordinated destabilization.”
“Yes.”
She steps back slightly, composure settling into place.
“Layered security across clan space,” she says. “Randomized transit windows. Intelligence sweeps beyond the buffer.”
“Already ordered,” I reply.
