Morazin’s eyes flick to me. “You’re really letting her run this.”
I smile faintly. “No. I’m enjoying it.”
He exhales something bitter, then turns his gaze toward the blast door like it’s a horizon he doesn’t trust.
The neutral tribunal marshal steps forward—a woman in gray armor with a face carved into professional neutrality. Her eyes sweep the room, pausing on me with the faint disdain most “official” types reserve for people like me.
“Morazin Valeer?” she asks.
Morazin’s voice is rough. “Present.”
She nods, checking a slate. “Transfer under tribunal protection is approved. Witness will be held under continuous biometric monitoring and public-stream contingency per Jordan James’ documented protocol.”
She says Jordan’s name like it’s a court filing.
Jordan’s jaw tightens. “You will not disable the protocol.”
The marshal’s lips press into a thin line. “Disabling it would be—unwise.”
Jordan’s eyes narrow. “Unwise or impossible?”
A flicker crosses the marshal’s face—annoyance, maybe respect. “Both.”
Good.
I watch as Morazin is rolled toward the transport. The blast door opens with a heavy hydraulic hiss, letting in colder air—air that smells like wet stone and exhaust. The convoy lights blink. A sterile hum. So official it makes my teeth itch.
Morazin pauses at the threshold, turns his head slightly, and looks at me.
“You’re really going to let me live long enough to dismantle Baragon,” he says, voice low.
I step closer, close enough that he can see the truth in my eyes. “I’m going to let you live long enough to choke on the consequences.”
He tries to laugh. It turns into a cough.
The door seals behind him. The convoy begins to move—slow, heavy, deliberate. Jordan’s compad tracks the biometrics live, her pupils dilating slightly as data scrolls.
When the transports disappear into the tunnel, she exhales for what feels like the first time since the hearing.
“He’s out,” she murmurs.
“For now,” I say.
Jordan’s mouth twists. “For long enough.”
I glance up at the monitor wall where external feeds show the city—Gur waking up, people walking, freight lines reopening, streets looking almost ordinary.
And the other feeds—Alliance audit notices, procurement freezes, official statements in clean fonts that mask panic.
High Command audits began less than an hour after Dowron’s live statement. The Nine’s procurement network is fracturing in real time—accounts frozen, shell routes exposed, middlemen suddenly terrified. People who used to swagger now whisper. Syndicates who used to pay tribute now pretend they never knew the Nine’s name.
Fear is a lever too.
And right now, the Nine is feeling it.
Senn steps up beside me, slate in hand. “Dockwright reports are in. Spindle’s down thirty percent in black-market volume. Saints are sealing donation routes to Nine proxies. Coalhand is publicly denouncing tribute.”
I look at him. “They’re switching sides.”
