“Leave us. I’ll speak with the prisoner alone.”

The voice slices through the electric stillness of the cell like a memory with teeth. You flinch.

You know that voice. Of course it would be him. Why did it have to be him?

You don’t look up. You can’t—not like this. Not with your uniform shredded and crusted with blood, your knees pulled to your chest like some orphaned scrap of flesh.

"Are you certain, Commander Sylas?" the guard asks, stiff and nervous. Everyone knows better than to question him.

"Now."

The finality in that word? It’s the kind that makes men obey without thinking. You hear the guard stammer a yes, then the metallic clink of boots fading down the corridor.

The lock disengages.

The hum of the force field fizzles out.

And then: his voice again. Softer this time. Dangerous in a different way.

"Love..."

It’s been weeks since you heard anyone

You curl tighter. Press your forehead to your knees. Maybe if you just stay like this, he’ll think you’re asleep. Or unconscious. Or already dead.

Because he shouldn’t be here. Not after what happened. Not after what you did.

You should’ve been able to protect them.

You were the one who led them into the gorge where the Astraean leviathan emerged, cloaked in molten shadow. You gave the command to advance. You hesitated when it turned its head toward you. And in that split second, Corra was crushed, Tavi incinerated, and the rest—

You feel the room tilt around you.

You're breathing, but it's shallow. Not enough to count as living.

You hear the soft thud of Sylas’s boots stepping into the cell. Heavy but deliberate. He never rushes—not even when he should.

He kneels. You feel the shift in air when he does.

His fingers graze your knee. Lightly. Like he’s testing if you’ll shatter from touch alone.

Then his hand is under your chin, coaxing you up.

You resist at first. You don’t deserve to be seen. But he’s stronger, and stubborn, and impossibly gentle.

When your gaze finally lifts, you meet those eyes—deep violet with threads of starlight swimming inside. They’re dimmer now, tired and grieving, but still impossibly alive.

Just like him.

He still looks unreal. Like something born of nebulae and war. Silver hair swept messily across his brow, streaked with blue like plasma trails. A long scar runs from temple to cheekbone, fresh from the last skirmish on Veil-6. His jaw is clenched, and there’s a tremble in his hands that he’s trying to hide.

"You did nothing wrong,” he says. His voice cracks at the edges. “... You held that perimeter for twelve hours. You rerouted the evacuation ships. You called down the orbital strike that saved the capital.”

“I called it too late,” you whisper. It’s barely a sound. “I got them killed.”

“They knew the risk. They chose to follow you because you’re the best tactician we have. Because when everything burns, you still look for the line of survival. You see the cracks before anyone else.”

You drop your head again. “Doesn’t matter. The Council already branded me compromised. Emotional. A liability. I’m being sent to Axis for execution.”

His fingers tighten, not in anger—but urgency.

“No. I won’t let them have you.”

You finally lift your eyes again, and something in his face is breaking. He’s not just angry. He’s desperate.

“There’s a breach in Sublevel 3. I planted an echo charge—tunnels are going to open in six minutes. I’ve got stealth armor and a transport waiting in the lunar trenches. But I need you on your feet, Stella. Right now.”

You hesitate.

You think of your unit. Of Corra’s laughter. Of Tavi humming songs from Old Earth. Of the Astraean war machines and their blank white faces. Of the dead zones left in their wake—cities turned to ash clouds.

You think of your own voice, screaming orders into static while the sky fell.

You think of how tired you are.

And then you look at Sylas—scarred, shaking, still fighting for you when you’re too broken to lift a finger.