“Yes.”
Rethan exhales slowly. “The clans are not unified.”
“I am aware.”
A comm alert pulses along the edge of the table. Priority.
Clan Vorthan.
I accept it.
Vorthan’s chieftain appears, his scarred face filling the projection. His eyes burn with something that is not grief and not rage. It is calculation.
“You risk the entire Badlands for one human,” he says without greeting.
“I risk the Badlands if I do nothing,” I reply evenly.
“You gamble fleets against Alliance firepower,” he counters. “Your reformist restraint has already fractured our strength.”
“You mistake patience for weakness,” I say.
He bares his teeth faintly. “The clans do not.”
Another channel flickers to life beside him—Clan Serekh’s matriarch, her voice cool and cutting.
“Your authority bleeds,” she says. “You consorted with a human. Now she is paraded as traitor. Our patrol routes are harassed while you posture.”
“I posture?” I repeat quietly.
“You hesitate,” she says. “You negotiate while Alliance fleets mobilize.”
Rethan shifts slightly behind me, but I lift one hand to silence him.
“You want open war,” I say to both of them.
“We want strength,” Vorthan replies.
“Strength is not flailing,” I counter.
Serekh leans forward in her projection. “Then prove it.”
There it is.
The challenge without formality.
“You wish to contest leadership,” I say.
“Yes,” Vorthan answers bluntly.
“Name your champion,” I tell him.
“I will come myself,” he says.
The war room grows very still.
“Formal challenge?” I ask.
“Formal,” he confirms.
