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He ignored that.

Of course.

The transport slowed.

The door unlocked.

Light spilled in.

Not harsh white this time.

Blue.

Royal security colors.

Three armed Zunatorian guards stood beyond the threshold.

Shoulders back, chins up, rifles braced against their chests instead of slung loose the way Review carried theirs. Their uniforms had silver trim at the collar, not gray, and the insignia on their sleeves was a single vertical line instead of a circle.

Not Review.

Not Veil.

One raised a weapon.

“Do not move.”

I almost laughed. “Trust me, he’s not.”

The guard’s eyes moved to Veyr. Then me.

“Identify yourselves.”

Veyr shifted. Tried to sit up. Failed.

I caught his shoulder.

“Veyr.” He pushed my hand aside gently.

Not rejecting—his fingers stayed on mine a beat before he let go, and he turned his palm toward the guards instead of away from me. Needing to speak.

His eyes fixed on the lead guard. “Veyr.”

The guard frowned. “Full identification.”

Veyr drew one breath. Then another. “Strike Commander Veyr.”

The guard went still.

His rifle dropped an inch. His mouth opened, closed. The other two guards looked at each other, then back at him, then at Veyr’s face—really looked, like they were reading something they’d memorized years ago and never expected to see again. One of them shifted his grip on his weapon twice without deciding what to do with it.

Recognition?

Impossible.

Maybe not.

Veyr continued. “Formerly assigned⁠—”