The hall of judgment was silent, the air thick with the weight of unspoken words. Felix stood to one side, rigid and pale, while across from him sat Jayar, his gaze unwavering, locked on Felix as though nothing else in the world existed.
The judge's voice cut through the silence, stern and deliberate:
"You, soldier Jayar, are hereby sentenced to the forfeiture of your property, the seizure of your data card, and immediate expulsion. Do you understand?"
"Yes," Jayar answered, his voice steady.
The judge continued:
"Do you admit to having used physical force against a soldier of Gor?"
"Yes."
"Do you admit that, on your own initiative, you followed the adherents of Kiwooin?"
"Yes."
"Do you admit to having traveled with the youngest son of K. L. to the Pearl Valley?"
"Yes."
"Do you admit to being a member of the Fulchiva clan?"
"Yes."
At last the judge leaned forward, his expression unreadable.
"And do you admit that you stand here of sound mind, under no coercion, and accept this judgment freely?"
"Yes."
"Then the sentence is passed," the judge declared. "This court is dismissed."
Chairs scraped faintly against the stone floor as the assembly began to rise, yet Jayar did not move. His eyes remained fixed on Felix—without scorn, without fear, without even sorrow. There was nothing in that gaze but silence, and perhaps a lingering question: was he still looking at a friend, or at a stranger he no longer recognized?
When the court dispersed and the heavy doors of the chamber closed behind them, the murmurs of the onlookers bled into the noise of the street. Jayar stepped out into the open air, the weight of the verdict pressing against his chest, but his eyes immediately found Felix among the soldiers.
He approached, his tone quiet but firm.
"Felix… I just wanted to say goodbye. And to apologize. Not for the verdict, but for everything between us—for the way it ended."
Felix's jaw tightened. He turned his face away, brushing off the words with a dismissive gesture, unwilling to meet Jayar's eyes.
But Kayav lingered. He placed a hand on Jayar's shoulder, his expression weary but sincere.
"I accept your apology," he said softly. "And I owe you one as well. I wasn't always fair to you. Maybe I could have done more."
For a moment, the tension eased. Jayar gave a faint, almost disbelieving smile.
"My sister called me," he said. "She's alive. She's safe. She told me not to worry."
The relief in his voice was quiet, almost fragile, yet it held him together as he stood there between the friend who had turned away and the one who remained.
Jayar paused before turning away, his gaze lingering on Kayav. His voice dropped, almost conspiratorial, though still steady.
"Kayav… tell Felix this for me. Tell him that Gor suspects him of cooperating with a secret organization. Don't explain, don't argue—just pass it along. He'll understand."
He didn't wait for a reply. The words hung in the air like smoke, heavy with meaning, as Jayar adjusted his coat and stepped back from them. Without another glance, he walked toward the road, his figure already retreating into the distance.
Behind him, Kayav stood frozen, torn between confusion and dread. The message was not a threat, nor quite a warning. It was something in between—something only Felix would be able to decipher.
And Jayar, without looking back, went to gather his few belongings.
...
Felix's next assignment took him beyond the safety of the dome, to a remote settlement known as Gimibets. The reports were consistent, and all troubling: people vanishing without a trace, families fractured, entire households left abandoned overnight.
He arrived with a small team—two soldiers armed for patrol and several lab technicians sent to collect and analyze evidence. The technicians worked quietly, sweeping the area for samples, scanning walls and soil for energy residues. And there it was again—those same strange traces he had first seen in the desert.
Gimibets itself seemed almost too quiet. The streets were narrow, lined with modest stone houses, their windows shut, curtains drawn as though the town itself wished to hide. The few residents who dared speak to Felix gave the same explanation, rehearsed like a local superstition.
"We're close to the deep forest," they muttered. "People go missing there. That's all. It's the forest, nothing else."
But their eyes betrayed them. Fear lingered in every glance, and the silence between their words spoke louder than their excuses.
According to Gor's assessment, something was deeply wrong with this city. These were not isolated incidents. People were vanishing in groups, sometimes whole clusters of families, without so much as a scream or a drop of blood left behind. No evidence. No witnesses. No patterns.
Only the same impossible traces—the kind that had no record in the archives, no place in science, no explanation in logic.