Kori's words hung in the air - soft hammer, cloth faded by years. No one moved. The hall's ribs glowed like sleeping embers, the copper under the floor hummed as if trying to remember a melody.
Lynea drew one slow breath. When she spoke again, her voice matched the room: measured, clear, not asking for pity, not courting absolution.
"I am indebted" she said, hands flat on her knees. "Not just to tell you what I told you - but to ask for something I have no right to ask." She lifted her eyes. They did not plead. They testified.
"My family did harm" she said. "A lot of it. To the Underworks. To strangers whose names I will never know. To people you knew." She nodded once toward Kori without flinching at the shadow of Takeshi in the space between them. "I can't return what was taken. I can only choose differently and live long enough that the choice means something. If there is a forgiveness you can give, I would carry it. If there is not, I will still carry the work."
