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We do.

I take her hand again.

Together, we stand in the quiet shrine station while cedar-smoke rises in ordinary air, and I feel faith return in a form small enough to hold and honest enough to keep.

CHAPTER 33

ANITA

The first paper goes out under a title so dry it should qualify as a sedative.

Pre-Precursor Structural Anomalies and Restricted Symbolic Continuity in the Nareth-Kul Debris Field.

It is a cowardly title. It is a responsible title. It is also the title twelve review-board members, three legal advisors, two trauma specialists, one League cultural-stability consultant, and Brakk all hated for different reasons, which is how I know we achieved something close to balance. The room where we finalize the release smells of stale coffee, warmed plastic, antiseptic residue from my healing wrist burns, and the faint metallic tang that still clings to the shard case no matter how many times containment techs swear the exterior has been neutralized. Beyond the conference viewport, the recovery vessel hangs near the Nareth-Kul debris exclusion zone, and fragments of the dead rogue world drift through starlight like black teeth pulled from a god nobody believes in anymore.

I sit at the long table with my hands folded over the finalized abstract while every muscle in my neck tries to climb into my skull.

Ghar stands behind my chair.

Not hovering. Not looming. Absolutely looming, but with professional restraint. He has one hand resting on the back of my chair, close enough that his warmth steadies me through the thin fabric of my borrowed jacket. His chest and ribs are still heavily bandaged beneath his black tunic, and the medics have threatened him with sedation twice this week. He responded both times with silence, which the medics called noncompliance and I called predictable.

Sira sits to my left, pale but composed, silver-white hands wrapped around a cup of tea she has forgotten to drink. Brakk sits to my right, boots on the polished conference floor, arms crossed, grease under his claws despite the fact that League quartermasters confiscated his tools six hours ago.

He has acquired new tools.

Nobody asks how.

Dr. Halvek’s remote projection flickers above the far end of the table, her expression severe and exhausted. The Director survived because she was evacuated to an orbital review platform before the worst of the Choir assault. Survivor’s guilt has carved new lines around her mouth since then. Council Liaison Merrow sits two chairs down from her projection, wearing the expression of a man who has personally discovered that bureaucracy cannot plug a hole in reality and resents everyone for noticing.

“Once released,” Merrow says, “this paper cannot be recalled.”

I look at him. “That is generally how publication works.”

“This is not the moment for sarcasm.”

“Liaison Merrow, if there is ever a moment for sarcasm, it is while a committee decides how much pre-Precursor truth can safely be footnoted.”

Brakk points at me. “That one was restrained. You should thank her.”

Merrow ignores him, which remains his only reliable talent. “The title alone will ignite speculation.”

“The data ignites speculation,” Sira says calmly. “The title merely declines to arrive holding a torch.”

Halvek’s projection leans forward. “We have redacted all direct origin implications. The release confirms structural evidence of a civilization or intelligence predating known Precursor ruins. It includes geometric inconsistencies, symbolic continuity markers, and damaged cultural contact indicators. It does not include the First One contact record, the full archive sequence, or any of the collapse models.”

“Or the jalshagar emergence data,” I add.

Ghar’s fingers shift slightly against my chair.

Merrow’s eyes flick toward him and away again. “Still, the Coalition will accuse the League of fabricating evidence to undermine Ataxian theology.”

“The Coalition accuses the League of fabricating weather when a League shuttle lands in fog,” Brakk mutters.

“The Alliance will ask why a Vakutan security contractor had access before formal military review,” Merrow continues.

Ghar’s voice remains mild. “They may ask me.”

Merrow’s mouth closes.