“They do,” Kael says.
“But through destabilization,” I finish.
“Yes.”
The bond between us pulses again, not violent this time but heavy and undeniable, like gravity.
I look at him.
“You offered to drop me at the next port,” I say.
“Yes.”
“You still think that’s an option?”
“It is,” he answers.
I shake my head. “No. It isn’t.”
He studies me carefully.
“If I disembark at neutral space,” I continue, my voice steadying as resolve replaces panic, “I am arrested before I finish a sentence. And the evidence disappears into sealed arbitration.”
“Then we do not seal it,” he says.
I meet his gaze.
“We go public,” I say.
Varek raises an eyebrow slightly. “Public exposure escalates conflict.”
“So does fabricated execution,” I reply.
The engine hum deepens as the cruiser crosses a navigational threshold. A soft alert tone sounds from the navigation console.
“Approaching outer boundary,” Varek reports.
I glance up.
The starfield ahead shifts subtly. Darker clusters emerge against the void, irregular asteroid belts forming defensive rings. Sparse beacons flicker in coded pulses, not bright and proud like Alliance markers, but sharp and watchful.
Reaper territory.
Even at the edge, it feels different. Wilder. Less orderly.
A shadowed cruiser slides into view from behind a drifting asteroid, its hull bristling with angular plating and spiked architecture. Engines glow low and controlled, a predator conserving energy.
“Clan sentry,” Varek says.
I inhale slowly.
My name is branded traitor across Alliance networks.
My clearance is gone.
My career is ash.
But the data glowing on this console is real.
