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Selene straightening slowly from the analyst station and pressing her fingers once to the bridge of her nose before resuming.

The muted click of a drone adjusting altitude overhead.

My own breathing, slower than the room deserves.

Pellorin eventually lowers himself into the adjacent chair with all the grace of a man whose back has been at war with furniture for years.

“You have become unbearable, by the way.”

I turn my head. “That seems late as an observation.”

“I mean specifically today.”

“How.”

He rubs his forehead. “Because you’re calm.”

“That troubles you?”

“It terrifies me.”

I consider that. “I am not calm.”

“No,” he says. “You are worse. You’re settled.”

The word lands closer to truth than I would prefer.

Because yes. Somewhere between Selene’s presentation and Merrow’s repudiation and Drax’s visible refusal to let this become a revenge script, something in me has settled.

Not into peace.

Into decision.

Whatever comes now, it will not be the old story. Not the one where I carry the whole weight because it is strategically tidy. Not the one where silence can still masquerade as duty.

Pellorin studies my face. “There it is again.”

“What.”

“That look.”

I turn away from him. “You are becoming repetitive.”

“And you are dodging.”

Before he can push further, a legal clerk hurries toward the partition with a tablet in hand. Her steps are measured, but the pulse in her throat is visible from here.

“Counsel Pellorin,” she says, “closed-chamber procedural summary.”

He takes the tablet at once. His eyes move rapidly over the text.

“Well?” I ask.

He reads another line, jaw tightening. “The deliberative framing has narrowed.”

“In what direction.”

He scrolls. “Toward institutional interference, non-retaliatory remedy, command de-escalation… and preservation of ceasefire architecture.”