The shadowed docking bay known as Outpost 47 was eerily quiet as Syra stood at the entrance to her ship, the Nebula, with Colt's sleek vessel hovering nearby. His crew, which consisted of three off-worlders, dressed distinctly in salvaged and scavenged gear, loaded crates onto the ship and said nothing to Syra.

  "Lively crew you have," she murmured as she waved her band over Colt's, transferring credits for some parts the shop was running low on. They were almost done, and she was anxious to get him out before anyone noticed.

  "They're loyal, that's all that matters," Colt said, "My offer still stands, you know. If you decided to join me I'll throw all these kesani back to Vextar where I found them. Just you and me."

  "You're really putting it on sweet, huh?"

  Colt's lips curled, "You still don't believe me? I won't lie to you, your skills would be extremely valuable, and I could use a co-pilot who knows her way around..."

  "As tempting as that sounds, unless you can pay me what Dominion paid me, you know how this goes," Syra said, though she couldn't help but crack a small smile. "Take the goods. I'll see you up there. Make sure you disable the sensors like we discussed."

  "You're one stone cold fox, Sy. But I know there's a soft spot for me. Always a pleasure doing business with you," There was a glimmer of mischief in his eyes. "Just keep your comms open. I'll get it done faster than you can say 'illegal manoeuvre.'"

  "Promise me you'll be careful."

  Colt's expression softened, his grin fading for just a moment as he hooked his finger under her chin playfully. "Always. You know I can take care of myself."

  She could feel the weight of the moment pressing in around them, a bubble of shared history and unspoken feelings. Without thinking, she leaned in, her heart quickening as she pressed her lips against his.

  The kiss was familiar, yet it held a tinge of longing—a blend of affection and goodbye. It was a soft brush of lips, a fleeting moment that felt both tender and charged with the knowledge that this could be the last time they shared such a moment.

  Colt's hands found her waist, pulling her closer, but the kiss didn't linger. It was an acknowledgment of what they were and what they weren't—a connection that defied labels.

  When they pulled apart, Syra could see the understanding in his eyes. "I'll be waiting for you," he said, his voice low, tinged with something deeper than the lighthearted banter they usually exchanged.

  "I know you will," she replied, forcing a smile to mask the knot forming in her stomach. She smoothed the collar of his jacket down, "Just keep an eye out for the guards."

  With a final lingering look, Syra stepped back, her heart heavy yet light all at once. Colt called out something in Gornish, a harsh, guttural trading language, to his team and they began closing up the cargo hold.

  Syra stood at the edge of the landing bay, arms crossed as she watched Colt's ship fire up its engines. The deep hum of the thrusters echoed through the vast chamber, shaking the ground beneath her boots. She leaned against the metal railing, eyes trained on the sleek, rugged vessel that would take him away again, into the endless dark of space.

  The glow from the engines reflected in her eyes, casting her face in shadows as the wind from the launch picked up around her. Her fingers tightened on the rail, the cool metal grounding her, but inside, she felt that familiar knot tighten in her chest.

  She didn't wave. That wasn't her style. But she couldn't help the small smirk tugging at her lips as she watched Colt through the cockpit window.

  He looked back at her, his face just barely visible behind the glass, rugged and handsome as ever. Even from here, she could see that cocky grin he always flashed when he thought he'd won.

  She had a feeling she'd be seeing him again and soon, and in some selfish way she hoped for it.

  Syra boarded the Nebula, rising slowly, its hull gleaming under the bay lights. Syra kept her eyes on the comms display, fingers tapping restlessly against the console. She felt a restless tug within her but she brushed it away.

  As his ship faded into the distance, a silhouette disappearing against the backdrop of space, a piercing blaring siren cut through the hold.

  Red lights flashed across the hangar, casting harsh shadows over the walls. The alarm was unmistakable—Weave security had been alerted to their activities.

  Syra's heart stopped and she slammed her fingers on the comms. "Oh shit. Colt, get out of here!"

  "Syra—" Colt's voice came back, urgent.

  "Now!"

  "Goddammit, Syra. Be careful." Colt's voice clicked off.

  She barely had a moment to process his words before his ship shimmered in the distance, the grav drive igniting with a burst of light. Space twisted around it, bending reality, and then—gone. He was safe.

  Syra punched the throttle forward. The Nebula's engines roared, straining as she shot out of the docking bay. Her hands moved on instinct, gripping the controls, weaving between ships and scattered debris. The Weave's traffic was dense, a maze of battered freighters, and drifting wreckage. She kept her course erratic, unpredictable, skimming dangerously close to hulls and thrusters to mask her signal.

  The warning lights on her console blared in chaotic protest.

  Then she saw it.

  A Dominion ship.

  It was stationed at the far end of the Weave, unmistakable in its black, gleaming menace. Its silhouette was sleek and predatory, cutting through the field of lesser ships like a blade through silk.

  Syra's stomach clenched.

  Her grip on the controls tightened as she forced herself to steady her breathing. Maybe—just maybe—she could slip away before they noticed her.

  She dipped the Nebula into the shadow of a lumbering cargo hauler, slowing her approach, keeping her engines low. It was an old trick—move like background noise, unnoticed and unimportant.

  Then a new siren blared.

  Her heart stopped.

  A transmission crackled through the comms.

  "Unidentified vessel, you are ordered to power down and prepare for boarding."

  Syra's breath left her in a curse. Her fingers hovered over the throttle, itching to push it, to run, but the scanner was already flashing red. The Dominion ship had locked onto her.

  A horrible dread settled in her gut. How the hell had they spotted her?

  This is it, she thought. I'm going to prison.

  Her mind raced, grasping at any plan, any possible way out. Then, for just a moment, a darker thought crept in.

  Her father.

  What would it do to him if she was locked away for life? If she never came back? Wouldn't it be easier to just—

  No.

  She shoved the thought aside, swallowing hard. No, I will live. I will get out. I have to.

  She forced her hands to stay steady, forced herself to focus.

  The sound of her own heartbeat thundered in her ears, louder than the alarms.

  Another transmission.

  "Identification: Syra Jharis. In the Eye of the Dominion and the Dominion Embassy, idle your engines and prepare to be boarded."

  Her jaw clenched. They had her. There was no point in fighting now.

  She let out a slow, shaking breath, fingers flicking the switches to power down the Nebula's systems. The lights in the cockpit dimmed to a dull, defeated hum.

  "Shit. Shit."

  The dull thud of docking clamps latched onto her ship. A hiss of depressurization. The distinct, mechanical groan of an airlock engaging.

  Then the boots.

  Heavy, purposeful, armored.

  They moved through the corridor, fanning out in formation—five, maybe six of them. More than enough to handle her.

  Syra's gaze flicked to her weapon stashed under the console, but she didn't move for it. They'd be on her before she could even think about reaching for it.

  The airlock hissed open, and they stepped inside.

  She recognized the man leading them immediately.

  Markis.

  Stocky, graying beard, sharp eyes that had seen too much. One of the regulars at the Weave's outer hangars. She had just sold him an antique Yava maker for his husband's birthday.

  His blaster was aimed at her, but his stance wasn't hostile. Just wary. She saw the flicker of recognition in his expression before he schooled it into something cold and unreadable.

  "Syra Jharis," he said. "You are hereby detained for illegally entering the restrictive zone of Outpost 47."

  Syra exhaled slowly, lips curving into a humorless smirk.

  "Don't worry, I won't cause a scene."

  The others moved in. She didn't resist as they wrenched her arms behind her back, snapping cold metal cuffs around her wrists. They weren't gentle, but they weren't unnecessarily rough either. Just efficient.

  Tara, one of the younger officers, who Syra had drank with on more than one occasion, hesitated as she gripped Syra's arm, shifting uncomfortably.

  Syra didn't look at her.

  She kept her head high as they marched her off the ship.

  The Nebula's engines dimmed behind her, her ship—her freedom—left cold and lifeless.

  She had almost gotten away cleanly. Now she was going to lose her ship, any scrap of reputation she had left. No one liked to deal with someone who had a dominion target on their back for the rest of their life.

  Markis's eyes flicked toward her every few moments as they moved through the docking area. There was a heaviness in the air, a shared understanding between them that neither would acknowledge aloud. She didn't make it easy for them, but she didn't resist either, knowing that any sign of familiarity could be used against them later.

  And as they led her away, the realization settled in that this wasn't just about bending the Weave's rules. This was about the Dominion, and there was no escaping it now.

  ∞

  Syra sat on the narrow cot, her back pressed against the cold wall of the detention cell. The dim blue light overhead cast long shadows, flickering every so often. The air smelled of metal and sterilized surfaces, the unmistakable scent of captivity.

  She stretched her legs out, staring at the scuffed floor. How many people had been locked up here before her? How many had walked out? How many hadn't?

  Her fingers idly traced the seam of her sleeve as her mind ran circles around the past few days.

  She'd known the risks. Smuggling contraband past Dominion patrols was one thing—stupid, reckless, but manageable. Breaching security gates was an A class felony, one that would land her straight in the salt mines and getting caught like this was just downright shameful.

  She had gotten sloppy.

  Or maybe she had just stopped caring about the consequences.

  But how the hell was the alarm tripped in the first place? She'd been so careful. She'd done it enough that she knew the procedure down to a fine detail.

  Taken from Royal Road, this narrative should be reported if found on Amazon.

  And her father.

  Her heart sank into her stomach. She exhaled sharply and pressed her palms against her face. He didn't need to see her like this. He’d be so disappointed. Everything he worked so hard for, just for his only daughter to end up in prison.

  The door clanked open.

  Syra's head jerked up, her body tensing out of instinct. A guard stood in the doorway, arms crossed over his chest, helmet obscuring his face.

  "You have a visitor," he said flatly.

  Syra's stomach twisted. A visitor? She didn't have many people who would come for her and the one person she did want to see she didn’t think she could face. “Who?” he barely managed.

  But when she stepped out and saw who was waiting for her in the visitation room, she nearly stopped breathing. They were separated by a glass shield, with one hand hole, so prisoners could touch their loved ones for the last time. Syra knew Dominion, gave her life to the cause and she knew these visitation rooms were for people who were saying goodbye forever. Syra gulped.

  Edran.

  Her father stood with his arms crossed, his mechanical fingers tapping against his flesh forearm. His dark eyes locked onto her the moment she entered, sharp as ever, but there was something else lurking beneath them. Something she couldn't quite place. The guard moved to the left, and another stationed themselves at the door.

  "Sit," he ordered, nodding toward the chair across from him.

  Syra swallowed hard but did as he said. She wasn't a kid anymore, but in that moment, sitting across from her father under these circumstances, she might as well have been.

  Edran leaned forward, resting his elbows on the metal table. His jaw was set, his mouth a thin line. He didn't speak right away, just studied her.

  Finally, he exhaled. "Tell me it's not what I think it is."

  Syra hesitated. "Depends on what you think it is."

  His expression darkened. "Don't play with me, Syra. I knew something was off. The money coming into the shop. The way you dodged my questions. I told myself you were running jobs, sure, but smuggling? And not just any smuggling—" He gestured sharply. "This? And I can only guess what trouble got you here in the first place."

  She knew he meant Colt. Even when they were teenagers, they never got along - Edran had never given him the time of day, and Colt was too stubborn to appease an old man even if it was Syra's father.

  Syra clenched her fists. "What do you want me to say?"

  "I want you to tell me I was wrong," he snapped. "I want you to tell me you weren't dumb enough to get yourself tangled up in this mess. That I didn't raise a fool."

  Her throat tightened. She looked away.

  Silence.

  Edran sighed, running a hand down his face. "Damn it, jara. I can only pray that they show mercy on you but Syra, you had your second chance. They had every right to imprison you for what you did on Thenia but they didn’t. They won’t spare you a second time."

  Syra flinched and for a moment, neither of them spoke. Then, his voice dropped, quieter. "Why didn't you tell me?"

  She swallowed past the lump in her throat. "Would it have changed anything?"

  His eyes flickered with something she didn't recognize. Regret? Pain? Maybe both.

  "That's not the point," he muttered. "I might've been aware to it and things could've turned out differently."

  Syra wanted to tell him she was sorry, that she didn't mean for it to end up like this—but she didn't. Because that wasn't entirely true, was it? She made her choices. She just hadn't expected them to catch up to her so fast. "Come on, papa, we both know how that conversation would've gone."

  Edran let out another slow breath and leaned back. His face hardened, but there was something resigned in the way his shoulders settled. As if some part of him had already known this was coming. Then, suddenly, he reached across the table and grabbed her wrist gently through the small hand hole. "Do you have any idea how mad I am at you right now?"

  Syra's eyes burned as emotion threatened to erupt from her, "I'm sorry, papa," she said in the language of her homeworld, then hissed when she felt the sharp, ice-cold sting of something flooding beneath her skin.

  Her eyes snapped to his mechanical hand, where tiny, near-invisible needles had emerged from his fingertips, injecting something into her bloodstream. “Every choice has a consequence, daughter,” Edran replied in turn, “Run when you can.”

  "Papa—"

  "That's enough." The guard scolded.

  Edran let go, "Find your moment, daughter." he said in Old Kessaryon, a language no Sennian officer would understand. His gaze was unwavering, "I fear I may not see you for a long time yet."

  Syra stared at him, realization dawning.

  Syra felt something crack deep in her chest. This was real. He wasn't coming to get her out. He was giving her the tools to do it herself.

  She bit her lip and nodded.

  Edran's eyes lingered on her face for a moment longer before he pulled away. He exhaled sharply, pushing to his feet.

  Then he turned and walked out without another word.

  Syra sat there, staring at the door long after he was gone.

  She curled her fingers into a fist, feeling the faint hum of the nanites beneath her skin. An eerie pins and needles as they scrambled through her bloodstream. They weren't illegal, but they were expensive. Handy with cuffs, locks, wound restoration and immune system.

  Her father had just given her an escape.

  The walk back felt longer this time. The Dominion ship was silent, save for the steady hum of its engines beneath her boots. The two guards flanked her, their grips firm but not rough. They weren't worried about her. As far as they were concerned, she was just another prisoner.

  They reached her cell, and the door slid open with a soft hiss. One guard shoved her inside without a word. The cuffs around her wrists clicked loose and fell away, the metal clattering against the floor.

  The door shut behind her.

  Syra exhaled slowly, rolling her shoulders, trying to shake the stiffness from her body. She glanced around the dimly lit cell—bare walls, a cot, a small sink. No windows. No way to tell how much time had passed.

  She ran a hand down her face and sank onto the cot, elbows on her knees, fingers laced together.

  Syra lay on her cot for hours, staring at the ceiling, replaying every word her father had said, every flicker of emotion she'd caught in his face.

  She barely had time to sit up before a new set of boots stopped outside her cell.

  "On your feet," a guard ordered.

  Syra exhaled slowly, pushing herself upright. The stiffness in her limbs was worse now, but she didn't complain as she stood. They weren't gentle as they cuffed her wrists again, the cold metal snapping shut.

  "Where are we going?" she asked.

  No answer.

  The guards flanked her and led her out, boots echoing against the steel floors. The halls of the Dominion ship were the same sterile gray, the air crisp with recycled oxygen, but something felt different. A shift in tension.

  A familiar unease crawled down her spine.

  They were taking her somewhere else.

  She kept her gaze forward, ignoring the looks from passing officers. Many knew her, many that would've at least seen her face.

  Ahead, the doors to the interrogation chamber slid open with a quiet hiss.

  Inside, the room was empty except for a single chair bolted to the floor. Restraints extended from the armrests, ready to lock her in place. The walls were smooth, gray, devoid of anything that might give a person something to focus on—to hold onto.

  The guards pushed her into the chair. The restraints snapped closed around her wrists and ankles with a sharp click.

  Syra set her jaw and forced herself to breathe. She sat rigidly in the metal chair, her wrists bound securely to the chair.

  She hated this feeling. The helplessness.

  Across from her stood Commander Renwick, his uniform impeccable, decorated with the insignia of the Dominion Fleet. A four pointed star with an infinity knot to resemble the Sovereigns Ember implants. Syra had only ever seen Sovereign Unity's, a eerie pale blue symbol at the base of her neck. It seemed unnatural, in Syra's opinion, to be fed knowledge and information from an ancient piece of intelligence.

  He was a man in his early forties, with sharp features - a strong jaw, a straight nose with severe hazel eyes. He held a data pad in one hand, reviewing the charges against her as the silence stretched between them.

  "Syra Jharis. You have been detained for breaching Dominion and Weave security protocols by allowing unauthorized individuals into the Scattered Weave, and for unlawfully entering the restricted levels of Outpost 47."

  Syra's jaw clenched slightly, but she remained silent, unwilling to give him the satisfaction of a reaction. She knew these were serious offenses—offenses that could land her in a prison cell for years if she wasn't careful.

  "That's a notoriously complicated place to fly in."

  She said nothing and his eyes lifted from the data pad, finally locking onto hers. Hazel yellow eyes, common in Sennia where their red sun altered Sennia-born citizens. Just like blue Tyrmos altered the Weaves.

  "What puzzles me, Miss Jharis," he continued, his tone laced with curiosity, "is how a pilot with your prestige record ends up in a situation like this."

  He waved his hand in front of him, and her profile was projected into the air between them, displaying her impressive history and an unflattering identification picture of her ten years prior. She looked away, shame burning in every muscle.

  "I remember hearing about you, you know. A cadet with top marks in every single flight simulation. You broke academy records," he said, his voice almost begrudgingly respectful. "Commendations from all your instructors, and a career trajectory that most cadets could only dream of. And yet the biggest flaw of all—" His gaze hardened, "—can't follow orders. Care to explain how that happens?"

  Syra's eyes flicked to the glowing projection of her once-promising career. She swallowed the bitterness rising in her throat, the sting of her past failure still too raw. "Some things aren't as clear-cut as your records make them out to be." she said, her voice steady, though there was a hint of defiance in her tone. "Dominion isn't known for playing fair."

  Renwick's lips thinned slightly, a trace of a smile that never reached his eyes. "Dominion doesn't 'play,' Miss Jharis. We enforce order. Sovereign Valor guide us."

  Syra had never seen Sovereign Valor alive in the flesh before. She'd seen his imposing figure frozen in stasis at the Citadel once on a field trip with her school in the Weave.

  Unity had ruled for as long as Syra and her father had been alive. It was said their Ember implants kept them young and many believed it to be the Gods will. Syra had a theory their cryopods had something to with it but how exactly, she would never know.

  He paused, studying her face as if searching for something deeper. He set the data pad down on the table and leaned forward, his eyes never leaving hers. "Is that your ship we towed or some unlucky bastards stolen property?"

  "I won it in game of Stones, thank you. I even have the registration to prove it."

  There was a flicker of a smirk on Commander Renwicks face and he sighed, leaning back in his seat a little too casually, "You caught me on a very interesting day, Miss Jharis. A jobs just come up and we're in need of someone with your set of skills. Someone dispensable."

  Syra's brow furrowed as she listened, a mix of suspicion and curiosity creeping into her expression. "This isn't terribly convincing. What exactly are you offering, Commander?"

  "I'm offering you a chance to wipe the slate clean," he said, leaning back in his chair. "Our last team didn't make it back. We need someone with your skills—a pilot who can navigate treacherous terrain and handle the pressure of a high-stakes mission. I've seen your flight holograms, I have confidence you can do it. You take on this mission for us—get us into the mine, retrieve what we need and make sure we all get out alive—and I'll see to it that all charges against you are dropped. No record of your arrest, no mention of this incident. You'll walk away a free woman. I'll even throw in some credits just so I never have to see you again."

  Syra let out a slow breath, the tension in her shoulders loosening just a fraction. It was a tempting offer—a way out of this mess, a chance to reclaim her life. But she didn't trust the Embassy, not after how things had ended before.

  "This must be very important, or you're desperate if you're coming to me of all people."

  Renwicks lips pressed into a line. "Take it or don't. I'll find another."

  "One mission." she repeated, meeting Renwick's gaze, her eyes sharp with resolve. "And if I do this, I'm done. No more strings attached."

  "Unless you fail." He held out a hand.

  Syra stared at his outstretched hand for a moment, then grasped it firmly, sealing the deal. "I never fail, commander," she said.

  "You still know how to behave on a Dominion ship?"

  A smirk crept across her lips, "Persist, Prevail, Prosper."

  Commander Renwick studied her, a flicker of approval crossing his features. "Good." he pushed a slate across. "That's your mission briefing. Read over it. Sign it. You'll be piloting a ship for us."

  The weight of his words hung in the air, and Syra's heart skipped a beat. "What kind of ship?"

  "The Elysium."

  Her breath caught in her throat at the mention of the ship. The Elysium was a sleek, cutting-edge vessel known for its unparalleled speed and agility, capable of slipping through enemy lines unnoticed. It was a prize among Dominion ships, and now it would be in her hands, if only temporarily. "That's a lot of trust you're putting into me, commander."

  He simply smiled. "Your mission is simple," he continued. "Get us to the coordinates, help us retrieve the product, and get us back here. That's your only job."

  She wasn't in a position to refuse. The Dominion had her under their thumb, and she needed to find a way to survive.

  Renwick then said, "I want you to know Miss Jharis, if you disobey, if you even think about getting some funny little escape plan in your head, I'll make sure your dad in his cramped little junk store in the weave ends up sweeping dust into the drains for the rest of his life. I assure you; you'll find this mission... beneficial. Do as your told and we can discuss your future afterward."

  Syra swallowed hard, weighing her options. "Fine," she relented, nodding slowly. "when do I start?"

  "Right now." He said. "You'll be escorted to our ship the Arc. The Arc will fly close to the asteroid Dixtera and there we will descend with a group of three into the mine in the Elysium. The mine was shut down years ago, but the structural integrity is still there. Do you understand your job?"

  "Get you into the mine, retrieve the thing, get you back out. Piece of cake."

  "We'll talk more the closer we get "

  Syra Jharis's steps echoed hollowly on the metal boarding ramp of the Arc, Renwick's flagship vessel. It was a towering marvel of technology and power but despite the sleek design, it felt as unwelcoming as a cage. She could feel eyes on her from all directions, the silent judgment hanging in the air like a fog she couldn't shake.

  Commander Renwick walked a few paces ahead, his back ramrod straight, every inch of him screaming the no-nonsense authority he wielded. Syra knew what this was—she was here to dig herself out of the mess she'd fallen into, not to earn anyone's trust or respect. To the Dominion , she was still just a criminal, a smuggler with a record tarnished beyond repair.

  As they stepped onto the ship's main deck, Syra felt the tension rise. Uniformed officers bustled about in tight formations, their sharp glances flicking toward her and then quickly away, like they didn't want to be caught staring at the disgraced pilot tagging along at their heels. Whispers carried on the air, subtle but pointed.

  One officer caught her eye—a woman with a confident stride and a face Syra vaguely recognized from the academy days. Lieutenant Aila Novak, with her auburn hair pulled back into a severe bun and those sharp, calculating eyes that seemed to size up everyone she met. Syra hadn't known her well, just another cadet back then, but the recognition was mutual.

  Novak's lips curved into a smile that was both surprised and cynical as she approached, her boots hitting the floor in a steady, deliberate rhythm. "Jharis," she said, her voice carrying a touch of dry humor. "Nice to see you again. Didn't think I'd ever be seeing you on this side of the law."

  Syra straightened instinctively, her body falling into attention without thinking, though the casual edge of her expression betrayed her discomfort. "Yeah, well, life's full of surprises," she said, her voice even.

  Novak's stance was deliberate, precise—military through and through, every movement calculated as if to remind Syra of her own fall from grace. Her smile lingered, but the hard gleam in her eyes betrayed her satisfaction. "Some of us thought you'd be leading the fleet by now. Instead, here you are... a criminal under Renwick's thumb. Funny how things turn out."

  Syra's jaw tightened, her forced smile slipping for a fraction of a second before she caught herself. She tilted her head, her voice calm but carrying an undercurrent sharp enough to cut. "Aw, don't be like that Novak," She let the words hang for just a moment, her gaze unwavering. "I wouldn't be here if they didn't need someone with better sim scores."

  Novak's smile hardened, her composure faltering for the briefest instant before she snapped back into her soldier's mask, her stance rigid.

  "That's enough," Commander Renwick's voice cut in, cold and final, as he strode into the room. Both women stiffened further, their gazes snapping forward.

  "Let's not waste time reminiscing," Renwick continued, his tone like a blade slicing through the tension. "Jharis is here to do a job, and I expect her to follow orders to the letter. Is that clear to both of you?"

  "Yes, Commander," Novak said sharply, her voice clipped, though her jaw was still tight.

  "Yes, sir," Syra replied, her voice steady, though her knuckles were white where her fists curled at her sides.

  Renwick's gaze lingered on them for a moment before he turned on his heel, his steps echoing as he strode away. The air between the two women remained charged, the weight of old rivalries and grudges pressing heavily in the silence. Neither would say anything further—not yet—but the tension spoke volumes.

  Novak's eyes flicked between Syra and her commander, a polite smile still plastered on her face but now edged with something unreadable. "Good luck, Jharis," she said, and for a split second, it almost sounded genuine. "Sovereign, be good." But then she turned away, her polished boots clicking as she joined the other officers, already immersed in their preparations.