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My gaze caught on his left wrist. A narrow braid, clumsily woven from blue and silver cord, rested against the formal cuff of his tunic. Not regulation. Not ceremonial. Something made by small, unpracticed hands.
He hadn’t seen me yet. He was scanning the room—the medic, the monitors—assessing, cataloging. Then his eyes found mine.
His step faltered. Not much. A fractional hesitation an untrained eye would miss. The controlled rhythm of his breathing broke. For one suspended second, his expression was stripped of all authority—nothing there but raw, uncalculated shock.
“Strike Commander Veyr.”
No one had called me that in eight years.
The title hit harder than the wound.
I said nothing.
Anik took one step closer, blue ŭre brightening beneath his skin.
Not aggression. Recognition.
“No,” he muttered.
The word was quiet.
He looked toward the medic. “Confirm identity.”
The medic’s expression tightened as he studied the scan. “Biometric structure matches archived military records. Veyr Tharek’vǔtak, former Strike Commander, Royal Defense Command.”
Anik’s gaze snapped to him. “Archived?”
The medic hesitated. “Casualty status: deceased.”
Anik’s eyes locked on mine, the air in the room thickening like cooling metal.
His voice came low, stripped of all inflection. “You died.”
“I did not.”
The muscle along his jawline jumped once. A tiny fracture in his composure. “That was not the question.”
Talia’s fingers tightened almost imperceptibly around mine.
I felt it.
Anik noticed. Of course he did. Telepathic or not, he had always noticed too much.
He looked at her. “Talia Mercer.”
She straightened. “That’s me.”
“Your administrative status triggered three alerts when royal intake scanned you.”
“That tracks.”
Anik’s brow moved slightly. He returned his attention to me. “Explain.”
The old instinct rose immediately.
Report.
Rank.
