The Chancellor's Chamber-Meridis axis
Chancellor Yvith stood alone in her chamber, the walls drowned in light from a dozen suspended holo-feeds. They replayed the last surviving fragments of the battle—blinding flashes, ruptured lines of static, the heavy silence that followed. Each loop pressed deeper into the stillness of the room, the quiet broken only by her steady breath.
The doors hissed open. A communications officer stepped in, his face drawn tight.
"Chancellor… ground link reestablished. The blockade is lifted. The unknown ship—it vanished."
Yvith turned slowly, her expression unreadable, though her feathers twitched faintly at the edges.
"Are you certain?"
"Yes, Chancellor. Confirmed across all channels. We've spoken with surviving professors. They report heavy casualties among the Grounx legions, but far fewer among the cadets. Twelve of twenty professors remain accounted for. The others… status unknown."
Her gaze narrowed on the streams of static. She spoke without hesitation.
"Dispatch a Council fleet immediately. Initiate Evacuation Protocol for the site." She drew in a sharp breath. "And prepare the Kaleid One. I'll be going myself."
The officer shifted, unease flashing across his features.
"Chancellor… if the ship returns, the consequences could be catastrophic. It may even be a trap. To lure our fleet."
Yvith's feathers bristled, though her voice stayed calm.
"If a ship like that wished to set a trap, it wouldn't need one. It would simply strike. We don't yet know what it wants—but we can't afford to wait for answers."
The officer hesitated, then bowed and hurried out, relaying her orders down the line.
Yvith stayed still for a long moment. Her instincts clawed at her chest, a silent warning. Something about this—about the blackout, the sudden vanishing, the survival of so many cadets—pointed to one thread.
Niri.
The human.
Yvith's feathers pressed flat against her spine. She didn't know if Niri had revealed herself. She didn't know what Lu'Ka had managed to contain. But the risk was clear: if the Council learned the truth before Yvith reached her, Niri would be erased—or worse, turned into a weapon to tip the balance of power.
That was why Yvith had to go herself. Why the Kaleid One had to bring Niri back—under her supervision, under her silence.
She turned back to the screens one last time. The ship was gone.
---
Excavation Site – Camp
The blackout had lifted, but the camp hadn't settled. The ground still felt like it was holding its breath, waiting for something else to collapse. Smoke crawled low over the wrecks of Grounx armor, dragging the stench of burnt oil, scorched plating, and half-melted weapons. Fires spat and hissed where fuel still burned, their glow pulsing against the ruined tents.
Cadets moved like shadows, bent and silent, dragging salvage into shaky piles. Others crouched over the wounded, lifting them onto stretchers made from snapped poles and torn canvas. Every voice stayed low, every word swallowed before it could carry. The silence of the camp wasn't peace—it was a thin crust stretched over nerves still ready to snap.
Niri sat on a crate outside their tent, elbows biting into her knees, scarf hanging loose around her neck. Her eyes stayed fixed on the dirt. Dust clung to her lashes, her boots, her knuckles. She didn't move. Didn't fidget. Just sat and breathed while the others lingered nearby, close enough to keep her in sight, not close enough to touch.
They weren't waiting for orders. They were waiting for someone to speak first.
It was Thall who finally spoke. His voice carried steady, even in the stale air.
"Comms are stable. The Council fleet will be here soon."
Qiri's head snapped toward him, braid sliding over her shoulder. "Where's Professor Lu'Ka?"
Ronan answered before anyone else could. He was half-slumped against a bent tent pole, twirling a stick in one hand. He dug little trenches into the dirt with the end, voice too casual to be convincing.
"Said he needed to get things in order. Count survivors, tally losses, sort the supplies. Make it look neat before the fleet drops in." He snapped the stick in his hands, the crack sharp and brittle. "Or maybe he just didn't want to sit here with us."
No one responded.
Horn's eyes hadn't moved once. His stare pinned Niri like a nail through wood. His jaw worked hard enough to creak. When he finally spoke, the words came rough, scraped raw.
"I still don't trust you, Niri."
Her head lifted slow. She met his eyes with none of her own fire, only a flat calm.
"I know. You don't need to say it every five minutes. You've made your point."
Horn's low growl vibrated in the air.
Thall leaned forward, shoulders broad, voice clipped.
"Enough. We already talked this through. Before we stumbled into her, we were nothing. Now we've got a band. If we handle it right, it'll mean something when we get back. That's worth more than your grudge."
Horn's gaze cut to Thall, then back to Niri. His reply came sharp, bitter.
"If."
Ronan clapped once, too loud for the silence. His grin was thin, tired, but it forced the tension to bend.
"Come on, big guy. You've even got homework now—" he nodded at Horn's belt, where the General's rod was tucked. "Do the reading. Check the evidence. Then decide if you still want to rip her throat out. Until then? Maybe don't try to murder our resident myth."
"Shut up, Ronan," Qiri snapped, her voice cutting sharp.
Ronan's smirk faltered, but he let it drop.
The silence pressed in again.
Then Niri rose.
At first, it was nothing—just her pushing off the crate, slow, unhurried. But then she stretched. Arms reached high, shoulders rolled back, spine arched in a ripple that ran clean down her body. One joint cracked, then another, then another, a chain of sharp little snaps breaking the quiet.
The movement wasn't simple. It bent further, flowed deeper than any of them could manage. She arched and twisted with an ease that should have torn ligaments, dropped balance, left her gasping. Instead, every line was precise. Controlled. Seamless.
The air changed as they watched.
Thall's fists balled tight without him realizing. His shoulders tensed, jaw locked, eyes tracking her every shift.
Qiri's breath caught, sharp, almost a gasp. Her gaze darted across her form, following each unnatural roll of her spine, each impossible stretch.
Ronan's snapped stick slid from his fingers, forgotten in the dirt. His mouth opened, then closed again, no words coming. His smirk was gone.
Even Horn faltered. His glare cracked, just for a moment, something like doubt flickering across his face before he crushed it down, grinding his jaw tighter.
The gravity dragged at all of them, made every movement clumsy, heavy. But not her. Niri moved like she had been shaped in it, like she had been built to carry weights that would have crushed anyone else. For them, the planet was a burden. For her, it looked natural.
She lowered her arms at last, spine settling with a final soft crack. Her shoulders loosened, her breathing steady. Her eyes swept over them, one by one, reading the shift in their faces.
When she spoke, her voice was calm. Practical. Like nothing had happened.
"Enough sitting. There's work. Wounded to move. Gear to salvage. The fleet won't care for excuses."
She turned and walked away, unhurried, her steps steady. She didn't look back.
The others stayed frozen for a few heartbeats.
Qiri moved first, falling in behind Niri, silent, unreadable. Thall turned toward the supply lines, shoulders rigid, his movements clipped. Ronan finally pushed himself up, lips pressed tight, smirk gone.
Horn stayed rooted. His jaw flexed, teeth grinding. His eyes never left Niri's back until the crowd swallowed her. His silence said more than words—he hadn't decided yet whether what he'd seen made her more of a threat.
---
After hours of dust and half-sorted salvage, Lu'Ka called the four of them together. He left Niri out of it—she was still down at triage, tending cadets with hands that didn't look like they'd ever been meant for bandages. They came anyway: Ronan, Qiri, Thall, Horn. The utility tent smelled of oil, old paper.
Lu'Ka didn't waste time.
"Security will run interviews," he said, voice flat. "They'll press for details about the blackout, about the ship. Tell them what you saw—accurate, nothing more. Do not volunteer anything about Niri. Do not mention the General. Do not mention the orbs. Hold to those facts."
His gaze cut across them like a knife. When it landed on Horn, it sharpened.
"Especially you."
Horn's lip curled, but he said nothing. The muscle in his jaw twitched, like a fist trying to form.
Thall gave a short, practical nod—the kind that meant he'd already decided. Qiri's shoulders drew tight, her silence steady but heavy. Ronan rolled the snapped stick between his fingers, grinding it down until the splinters fell like grit. The tent carried the small sounds of unease.
"If the truth leaks," Lu'Ka said, "she dies. Or worse—they take her apart to see what made that ship listen. They'll turn her into a weapon, a specimen, a bargaining chip. Do you understand me?"
Ronan's head snapped up, anger flashing. "They'd never—"
"They would," Lu'Ka cut him off. "The Council fears what it can't control. They will rationalize anything. This isn't politics. It's survival."
"We don't have time," Thall said. "They'll be here soon. Only Chancellor Yvith knows the truth—we need her influence."
"Professor Rhiv's already made adjustments," Lu'Ka continued. "The Kaleid One can land close. We'll escort Niri straight to the Chancellor. Officially, she's under her mentor's protection and requires aid. That's all security needs to hear. Nothing more."
Qiri exhaled, then spoke. Her voice was level, but her eyes were hard.
"Then we make sure she knows her part. She keeps it short. No improvising."
This time, no one argued. A few brief nods settled it.
When Niri returned, hands still marked with blood from the wounded, Qiri walked her through the script—what to say, what to leave out. Low, precise. Rehearsed. Niri listened without protest. At the end she gave a short, almost resigned nod.
"I don't have other options, I guess," she said.
The words hung heavy. No one answered.