“You don’t know that,” Syin says.
“Kaelreth does,” Rosalind says. The name ripples differently than epis. Sharper. Colder. “He escaped from off-world captivity.”
Even not knowing the first word, captivity needs no translation. Off-world needs no explanation. Every survivor of the crash, or every child born after it, knows the sky can take things from you.
The Cavern Zmaj behind Rosalind goes very still, and my gaze catches on him.
He hasn’t moved much since I entered the council chamber. That should make him easier to ignore, but it doesn’t. He stands apart from both groups, duskier scales drinking the thin reflected light instead of giving it back. His claws are darker than the City Zmaj’s, thicker, curved against the stone floor as if the ground itself taught them their shape.
He watches Rosalind, not me, which should be a relief, but it’s not. My heart speeds up, and my mouth goes drier than normal.
“Rosalind,” Adran says, speaking at last.
One word, but it lands with a weight that makes me remember there was a time before this City, before these walls, before I learned to measure survival in crumbs and shade.
Rosalind looks at him, and something passes between them. Recognition. History. An old argument that never died, only learned to wait. It’s clear that they know each other. Not the stiff, formal knowing of leaders forced into the same crisis. Something older. Maybe older than the crash.
“You should have warned me,” Adran says, frowning. “In private.”
“Would you have let me speak?”
No one answers, which is enough.
My eyes move between them despite myself. Adran is gaunt and gray with hunger, but somehow still carrying the shape of command. Rosalind is exhausted from the journey, but still with a regal command formed of will and old authority.
They call her Lady General. I thought it was respect. Now I wonder if it’s memory.
“This isn’t the ship,” Adran says, lowering his voice.
“No,” Rosalind says. “On the ship, when people needed protection, they knew what they were being protected from.”
A ripple moves through the room.
The generation ship. The thing some of us remember in pieces and some remember only through stories. I was small when it fell. Small enough that memory has turned the before into flashes instead of facts.
White light that came whenever someone wanted it. Water from walls. Food without tokens. Adults who argued because there was time for arguing.
Then the crash. Then heat. Then less. Always less.
Adran’s expression closes, but not fast enough. Rosalind’s words found a wound.
“You speak as if knowledge has no cost,” Syin says, stepping forward.
“I speak as if starvation has one,” Rosalind says.
“You speak as if this resource is yours to offer,” Syin says.
“I speak as if your people are dying while you guard a silence,” Rosalind counters.
The chamber goes too quiet. The only sound is Rosalind drumming her fingers on the stone table. No denial. No protests against her words. That would be easier. But there is only silence. Silence with a body inside it.
Virn finally moves. One step toward the table. Measured. Controlled. He doesn’t look angry, and somehow that makes him more dangerous than Syin.
“Careful,” Virn says quietly.
Everyone listens. Even Syin.
“I am being careful,” Rosalind says, holding his gaze.
