“Hold still,” Reflector whispers beside my cheek, barely audible above the event music. “I’m recalibrating.”
I glance at him. He’s hovering off-axis. Twitching slightly. His sensor array is spiked with blue warning code. That’s not normal.
“What is it?”
“Could be feedback from the upper signal repeaters,” he says, voice a little too quick. “Or... maybe not. There’s... a fluctuation. A blip.”
My stomach tightens.
“A blip,” I echo.
“I can’t pin it. It’s faint. Mobile. But it’s not tagged—doesn’t match any of the registered signatures on the guest manifest.”
I scan the crowd.
Rows of well-dressed officials. Holonet reporters jockeying for better angles. Mall execs looking like they’ve eaten too many sedatives. All very... normal.
But Iknow.
Not in my head. Not with logic.
I know it in my skin. In the way the fine hairs on the back of my neck lift like caught in a breeze that isn’t there. In the way the weight of the stage suddenly triples under my heels. Like gravity itself is leaning toward me.
Like something...someone... just entered the room.
And I don’t need Reflector to name it.
Because I already know.
Garokk.
He’s here.
Somewhere.
My hands go clammy. The scissors slip in my grip.
“Isolde?” Reflector hisses. “You’re pale. Sit. Let me call security for a sweep?—”
“No.”
The word burns my throat.
“No,” I say again, quieter. “No scene. No drama. We finish this.”
“But—”
“It’s probably nothing.”
A lie.
A lie with teeth.
But I can’t afford panic. Not now. Not with half the galaxy watching.
I square my shoulders. Step into the spotlight.
The crowd erupts. Applause rains down like polite hail. The holo-cameras whirr into position. A thousand lenses blink red.
