“You’re injured.”
“I am healing.”
“That’s not the point.”
He finally looks at me fully.
“Position here is earned through strength,” he says quietly. “Not speeches.”
The plaza hum deepens as additional clan vessels power up across the sector. I can feel it through the soles of my boots—the vibration of engines igniting deeper within the asteroid complex.
War posture.
Sector-wide.
“You’re not just defending reform,” I say softly. “You’re defending your right to lead.”
“Yes.”
“And if you lose.”
“Then reform dies.”
The words land heavy.
I look around the plaza again—at the market stalls, the children darting between adults, the civilian life that exists outside the propaganda reels.
This is what burns if war ignites.
Not just warriors.
Families.
Infrastructure.
Fragile stability.
I exhale slowly.
“You let me walk through civilian sectors,” I say quietly.
“Yes.”
“You wanted me to see.”
“Yes.”
I look back at him.
“You’re not losing because you’re weak,” I say. “You’re losing because you’re ahead of them.”
His expression shifts slightly—something like surprise flickering beneath restraint.
“That does not guarantee survival,” he replies.
“No,” I agree. “It doesn’t.”
The plaza lights flicker faintly as additional ships ignite beyond the shield barrier overhead.
