Kael watches me with an unreadable expression.
“You could have ordered that,” he says quietly.
“Yes,” I reply. “But I needed to feel it disconnect.”
The last relay drops offline.
No one can see us.
No one can interrupt.
The outpost feels smaller without the hum of constant surveillance.
Kael steps closer, and the air shifts with him. He smells faintly of metal and something warmer beneath it—heat held close to skin.
“You chose this,” he says.
“Yes.”
“For what purpose?” he asks, though his voice suggests he already knows.
“For a moment that belongs to us,” I answer.
He studies my face carefully.
“You believe we will not have many.”
“I believe we cannot assume we will.”
A flicker passes through his eyes—not fear, not doubt. Calculation.
“We review the threat assessments first,” he says.
Of course he does.
We move to the central table. The projection flickers to life between us—trade convoy damage reports, transit attack logs, the faint interference pulse still blinking at the edge of mapped space like a distant star refusing to fade.
“Convoy breach remains unattributed,” I say, pulling up the micro-drone detonation pattern. “Precision charge. No Alliance signature.”
“No Dath signature either,” he adds.
“No.”
“And the anomaly signal?”
I enlarge it. The pulse is soft but consistent, repeating at mathematically deliberate intervals.
“It’s watching,” I say.
He nods once.
“Peace holds only because escalation is more expensive,” he says.
“Yes.”
He reaches out and turns the projection off.
The room darkens slightly as the holographic glow disappears.
