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“I was supporting your leadership.”

“You can support my leadership from a chair.”

“I will remember that.”

“You absolutely will not.”

“No.”

The honesty steals my irritation.

He lowers himself into the chair beside mine, and for a moment neither of us says anything. The table is littered with empty cups, revised charter drafts, and the residue of terrified governance. Outside the high windows, artificial sunlight continues pouring over everything as if the universe has not changed.

Ghar’s hand finds mine beneath the table.

“You were strong,” he says.

I let out a breath. “I was terrified.”

“I did not say otherwise.”

“Good. Because if leadership requires not being terrified, I resign immediately.”

“Leadership may require admitting terror without surrendering decisions to it.”

I look at him. “That sounded suspiciously wise.”

“I am recovering from certainty. Wisdom may be a side effect.”

“Let’s monitor it.”

His thumb brushes my knuckles. “You have changed.”

The words land softly but deeply.

I look toward the sealed shard case. “Yeah.”

“Does that frighten you?”

“Yes.”

“Does it feel wrong?”

I think before answering.

The old hunger is still there. I can feel it under my ribs, the need to know, to dig, to pry open the sealed doors of history and drag their contents into daylight. But something has grown around it. Not a muzzle. Not a cage. A conscience with scar tissue. A sense of cost. I no longer want truth as conquest. I want it as responsibility, which is far less glamorous and unfortunately much harder to pitch at conferences.

“No,” I say. “It feels heavier. Not wrong.”

Ghar nods. “Good.”

Brakk groans from across the room. “You two are doing the soft voice thing again. Is this going to be common in our workplace?”

“Yes,” Sira says.

“I object.”

“Noted.”