They'd send him off-world. No Ikona. No backup. No protection. Just a task.
He stayed upright, but his legs weren't steady. Pressure built behind the knees. Not weakness—just impact.
He didn't ask about Elara. About the one he'd betrayed. Or the woman who had kissed his forehead once and called it courage.
But they were there.
The memory of a hand at his back. The heat of a weapon at his ribs. A voice that had asked him not to die before he was ready.
Each image passed quickly. None stayed long enough to hold.
This really is a terrible deal.
The thought came dry. Too clean for how much it burned.
Somewhere deeper, the crucifix stirred—its presence threading behind the words, not loud, not forceful. Just there.
Is this the naïveté I never saw in myself?
It didn't mock this time. It observed.
Like a hand holding up a mirror and letting him watch what he'd become. No shard. No Dot. No guarantees.
