The engine hum steadies.
The alarms fade.
Only the quiet thrum of deep space remains.
Elara still grips the rail, chest rising and falling hard, eyes locked on the viewport where Alliance pursuit dissolves into nothing.
“There’s no way back,” she says softly.
I look at her—really look at her—for the first time since plasma began carving the corridor.
“No,” I reply. “There isn’t.”
And something in her expression shifts, subtle but unmistakable, as the reality settles between us in the quiet aftermath of fire and escape.
CHAPTER 7
ELARA
The cruiser settles into deep space with a low, steady vibration that hums up through the soles of my boots and into my bones. The violent compression of jump fades, replaced by a silence so complete it feels almost accusatory. Stars scatter across the viewport like shards of ice, distant and indifferent, while inside the ship the only sound is engine resonance and the faint crackle of cooling hull plating.
My hands are still shaking.
I don’t notice until I reach for the console and nearly miss it.
“You’re bleeding,” I say, my voice rougher than I intend.
Kael glances down at the blackened burn across his shoulder where plasma struck him in the corridor. The skin there is still red and raw, faint heat shimmer radiating from the wound as it slowly knits closed beneath regenerative strain.
“It will mend,” he replies evenly.
“That’s not what I meant.” I drag a hand through my hair, pacing once across the narrow command deck before turning back toward him. “You took two direct hits shielding me.”
He doesn’t answer immediately. He just watches me.
“I would take ten,” he says at last, his tone steady and infuriatingly calm.
My chest tightens.
“That wasn’t heroic,” I snap. “That was reckless.”
“It was efficient,” he counters quietly.
The main console flickers without warning. A harsh tone cuts through the cabin, sharp and official. The forward display overrides navigation data and floods with Alliance insignia.
“…this is an official notice from the Trident Alliance,” an amplified voice declares. “Former League Senior Aide Elara Vance is hereby designated collaborator in terrorist extraction?—”
The image shifts.
My face fills the screen.
Clean League portrait. Formal attire. Calm expression.
TRAITOR appears beneath it in red.
I stop breathing.
“…aiding and abetting Reaper extremist leadership… obstruction of justice… active accomplice…”
