The building was meant for weddings.
Marble floors. Crystal chandeliers. Gold-trimmed chairs set in symmetrical rows.
But today, it hosted survivors.
No flower petals. No music. Just trembling voices and stories once buried.
Elara stood at the edge of the hall, watching as the room filled with journalists, law students, retired judges, and women with shaking hands and guarded eyes.
Every seat held a name tag.
Every tag held a truth.
They called it The Tribunal of Light — a name NUMA mocked, but Elara didn't care.
It wasn't about justice anymore.
It was about visibility.
And for once, the Council couldn't stop it.
Khalid tested the livestream twice.
Private server. Encrypted transmission. Five mirrored back-ups. No names listed.
He handed Elara the mic.
"You don't have to do this yourself."
"I do."
He didn't argue.
He just pressed "Record."
Elara stepped into the spotlight.
The room quieted.
She didn't stand behind the podium.
She stood beside it.
"I'm not here to make you feel safe," she said.
"I'm here because safety was never real. It was a performance."
A pause.
"My sister is dead."
"She died because a council of men—and women—decided truth had an expiration date."
"And that date was the day she spoke up."
Gasps scattered through the room.
Cameras clicked.
Elara looked directly into one lens.
"This is not a leak. This is a testimony."
"And testimony doesn't bleed."
She began with Amara.
She described the bruises.
The pills.
The way their father would lower his voice before giving an order to make it sound like a favor.
She told them about the phone hidden in a medicine cabinet.
The files.
The names.
The silence.
Then she spoke of Kayra.
How her body was never found.
How the media buried her under speculation.
How a blogger became an enemy of the state.
Next was Halima.
Elara's voice broke.
But she didn't stop.
She played a clip of Halima's voice — shaky, tired, but real.
"They told me I was hallucinating.
That the bruises were mine.
That Amara never existed."
And when it ended, the room stood in silence.
Not grief.
Rage.
A former judge rose from her seat.
"This must go to the ICC."
Another woman, a mother of a missing girl, shouted, "We testify next!"
And one by one, they came forward.
Each with a story.
Each one a wound the Council never thought would resurface.
Outside, the press swarmed.
The police hesitated.
No one wanted to touch it.
It was too loud now.
Too raw.
Too seen.
NUMA sent a final warning via text:
"They'll spin this."
"They'll paint you as the cult leader. The chaos architect."
Elara replied:
"Let them."
"It's the truth they can't outrun."
Later that night, back at the base, Elara sat alone in the dark.
The Ashlist was complete.
Every name accounted for.
Some exposed.
Some exiled.
Some still hunting.
She stared at the wall across from it.
The new wall.
The Living.
The Remembered.
The Unforgotten.
She picked up a red marker.
And beside AMARA, she wrote:
TESTIFIED.
Halima entered quietly.
"Did it work?" she asked.
Elara didn't answer right away.
Then she said, softly:
"It didn't change the world."
"But it showed them we're still alive."
Halima smiled. "Then we've already won."