As if summoned by the thought, a priority transmission request flashes across the table.
Clan Vorthan.
Clan Serekh.
Clan Drae.
I accept the first.
Vorthan’s chieftain appears, his scarred face filling the projection. “You consort with humans and now one of them isparaded as traitor,” he snarls. “Our territories burn while you indulge sentiment.”
“I did not indulge,” I reply evenly. “I exposed manipulation.”
“You exposed weakness,” he counters.
The channel shifts to Serekh’s matriarch, her voice sharp as broken glass. “Alliance propaganda spreads faster than your explanations. You invite scrutiny.”
“I invite truth,” I answer.
“Truth does not win battles,” she snaps.
“It will,” I say quietly.
The channels close one by one, leaving the chamber colder than before.
Rethan watches me carefully. “Your authority fractures.”
“Yes,” I admit.
He crosses his arms. “What is your answer?”
I look at the star map hovering above the table, at the territories contested and calm, at the invisible threads Valen manipulates.
“My answer,” I say slowly, “is preparation.”
“For negotiation?” Rethan asks.
“For war,” I reply.
The word settles heavy and inevitable.
I expand fleet readiness protocols, activating dormant supply chains and recalling patrol units. Orders cascade through the cruiser’s network with deliberate precision.
“You believe Valen wants escalation,” Rethan says.
“Yes,” I answer.
“And you give it to him.”
“I give him something he cannot control,” I correct.
Rethan studies me for a long moment before nodding once.
Outside the viewport, the cruiser pivots toward contested space, engines building to a low, resonant thunder.
Elara is in Alliance custody.
My clans doubt me.
