“It is.”
I stop and face him.
“You almost lost leadership because I intervened.”
“I almost lost leadership because someone required it,” he says evenly.
“That’s not how politics functions.”
“It is how power does.”
The distinction lands harder than I expect.
I step closer without realizing it, the distance between us narrowing until I can see the faint shimmer where plasma burned into his shoulder and regeneration sealed it imperfectly.
“You don’t blame me,” I say, not as accusation but as question.
“No.”
“You should.”
“No.”
“Why.”
His gaze holds mine without aggression, without defensiveness.
“Because your action forced visibility,” he says. “And visibility fractures quiet consolidation.”
I search his face for irony, for self-preservation, for calculation.
I find none.
“If they had succeeded quietly,” he continues, “reform collapses without scrutiny. Clan destabilizes. Alliance narrative stabilizes. No counterpoint.”
“And now,” I say.
“Now their acceleration exposes preparation.”
The logic is brutal.
Uncomfortable.
But coherent.
I look back at the edit log, at the surgical refinement of his signature.
“They aimed a blade,” I say softly.
“Yes.”
“And I stepped between it.”
“Yes.”
The bond pulses—not violently, but with a steadier resonance that feels less like collision and more like alignment.
For a moment neither of us speaks.
