Then why lie about him?
The thought roared in silence.
The crucifix’s voice followed it, not spoken but felt—a coiling judgnt that never really left. Just hovered beneath the surface, waiting.
Naive.
The sa trust that had pushed him to shatter his shard. That had made him reach out to Kikaru in the arena and end up with her spear in his chest. That had cost him Dot, and maybe sothing deeper.
He drew in a breath through his nose. Let it out slow.
It didn’t calm him. But it kept him from cracking.
His gaze lifted, locking on Geras across the table.
Test him. But don’t break.
"What did he do?" Elias asked, voice low. "Exactly."
No anger. Just pressure. Pulled tight like thread between fingers.
"You ntion him a lot," he added. "But never the specifics."
The question didn’t hang long.
Geras’s lips twitched—not quite a smile, not quite reflex. Just the shadow of sothing that had ant more once.
"Dorian saved an outpost," he said. "Rebel surge caught everyone off guard. Civilians were trapped. Storm systems flaring. No backup inbound."
He paused. Not for effect. Just to breathe.
"He led them out. Every last one. Through plasma fire, partial collapses, system grid failures. He walked people through tunnels that lit up like lightning rods."
His voice dipped at the edges. The words stayed crisp, but his eyes shifted—away, then back again.
"Didn’t lose a soul," Geras said. "Not under his watch."
A beat of silence followed.
Then, quieter:
"He was... unstoppable. Like you."
The weight behind the last word wasn’t flattery.
"Too much like you, maybe."
Elias’s throat tightened.
Dorian’s na sat heavy in his chest, unmoving. A weight he didn’t know how to carry anymore.
The crucifix’s voice hadn’t returned. But its warning still rang, etched sowhere behind his ribs like scar tissue:
Belief without proof is control.
He wanted to believe. Wanted the image of Dorian Kael—the hero, the man who led people through fire and didn’t flinch—to be real.
But the doubt was harder to kill than any enemy. It moved slower. Quieter. It didn’t attack. It spread.
Is this another story?
Another myth to keep on the rails?
The thought didn’t leave room for comfort.
Across from him, Geras’s voice changed.
The warmth that had cracked through a mont ago was gone—pulled back behind armor.
"But that was then," he said.
His gaze sharpened. Not cruel. Just deliberate.
"And what you’ve done—tying down A Block, pulling Junjio out, shielding Vira during the tower collapse..."
He didn’t need to say more. The list filled the air on its own, line by line, unspoken judgnt built from witness reports and drone footage.
The silence that followed wasn’t empty.
It pressed.
Each word was a stone Elias could feel against his skin, stacking one after another across his shoulders.
He shifted forward.
Not far—just enough to straighten.
His legs still ached. The chair still bit into the backs of his thighs. But he found balance in the tension, not despite it.
"There’s more to it," Elias said.
His voice held.
Strained, yes—but solid. Not cracked. Not hiding.
"Let explain."
Geras raised a hand.
Not abrupt—just firm enough to stop the words before they gained montum.
"I know you can explain," he said.
The line ca without accusation. But it didn’t open the floor, either.
"You wanted to save your friends. Finish the mission. Give Junjio a chance to choose sothing better."
He watched Elias carefully, like soone recalling instructions that weren’t ant to be shared.
"I get it. I do."
There was sothing real in his tone—sothing not entirely sanctioned.
"You’re the spitting image of your father. That never-ending heroism. That need to step in."
For a breath, respect flickered there. But it didn’t last.
The shadow of the Federation moved behind it—political, calculating, already turning the next piece of the ga.
"But others don’t see it that way," he continued. "The Chairwoman. Most of the Wardens."
The pause wasn’t dramatic. Just grim.
"They were talking contingencies. Containnt. One of them called it a ’high-risk disposal.’"
The words didn’t linger long.
"Elara stepped in. Loudly. Said so things that can’t be repeated in reports."
He let that land without elaboration.
Elias didn’t speak right away.
The silence wasn’t passive. He felt it.
Elara’s na hadn’t been spoken aloud since the mont she left him at the crystal’s edge.
But now it circled back—her eyes, green and locked on his; her hand wrapping his when everything else had gone still. The mory ca sharp, not distant.
She fought for .
That truth settled lower than the fear. It grounded him, even as the rest of the room stayed cold and sterile.
The drones buzzed softly in the corners. The clicks were chanical—predictable. But they filled the space like breathing wasn’t allowed here.
His voice ca quiet.
asured.
"What are you saying, sir?"
Geras’s tone shifted again. This ti it didn’t bend.
"You’re expelled from the Ikona program," he said. "Effective imdiately."
No buildup. Just the sound of a verdict hitting the floor.
"You’re reassigned to Garrison Platoon Alpha—support and logistics."
He paused, long enough for the weight to settle.
Elias didn’t move, but sothing in his posture pulled tighter.
"You’ll still be going to the Prid Epics," Geras added. "Infiltration."
He let that word stand alone.
"No shard ans you’re harder to detect. No signature. No energy trails. You’ll get in easier than the rest."
Then ca the part that didn’t need emphasis, but got it anyway.
"If you die... the higher-ups will call it a risked loss."
No malice. Just policy.
The words didn’t hit all at once.
They layered—each sentence stacking over the last until the chair felt smaller beneath him, the room more angular, the drones louder than they had any right to be.
Elias didn’t respond.
The air around him thickened, not from heat, but from sothing slower. A kind of static that built behind his eyes.
A suicide assignnt. That’s what this is.
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