Chapter 25
SELENE
The tribunal building smells like overheated circuitry and panic sweat—like someone’s been running a marathon inside a server room. The air is too cold for how crowded it is, but the cold doesn’t help; it just makes the tension feel sharper, like it could cut skin.
I push through a knot of aides and security at the corridor intersection outside Chamber B. Someone’s voice cracks—laughing, maybe, or crying—and then another voice snaps back, “Not here. Not now,” like the floor itself is wired to record weakness.
My compad is vibrating so steadily it’s basically purring in my palm.
OVERSIGHT PANEL ESTABLISHED — EMERGENCY TRANSPARENCY STATUTES INVOKED.
SUBPOENAS ISSUED — CAEDRIN VOL DIRECTIVES.
SENTENCING RESCHEDULED — EXPANDED AUTHORITY GRANTED.
I swallow hard and keep walking, because if I stop, I will feel it. I will feel how the building has changed—how the tribunal isn’t a machine anymore; it’s a wounded animal, cornered and snarling.
“Ardent!”
I turn and nearly collide with a messenger in tribunal gray, hair frizzed like they ran their hands through it a hundred times. Their eyes flick from my face to my badge like they’re checking I’m real.
“High Arbiter Drax wants you in Briefing Room Four. Now.”
“Briefing Room Four?” My voice comes out hoarse. “That’s—”
“Yeah,” they say, breathless, “that one. The press staging room. Don’t ask me why. Just… go.”
They dart away before I can say anything else.
The press staging room.
That’s not where tribunal staff go unless the tribunal wants them on-camera, or wants to scare them into behaving as if they’re on-camera.
I start down the hall, boots clicking on the polished stone, and my senses keep snagging on details: the metallic taste of the air, the faint ozone tang from the shield generators, the way the lighting feels harsher today—like it’s trying to bleach reality into something simpler.
A door slides open ahead of me, and Senior Legal Architect Marris Thane steps out, face pale and tight, eyes glittering with the kind of anger that pretends it’s professionalism.
He sees me and slows—just enough to make it intentional.
“Well,” he says, voice dripping with polite contempt, “look who’s still employed.”
I keep my expression flat. “Not for lack of effort on your end.”
His nostrils flare. “Cute. You’re enjoying this.”
“I’m not enjoying anything,” I say. My fingers curl around the compad so hard the edges dig into my skin. “People died. My job is to make sure the record doesn’t get… edited.”
Thane’s smile is thin as wire. “Your job was to support a tribunal. You turned it into a riot.”
“Yeah,” I say, and my pulse bumps like a fist against my ribs. “And your ‘clean’ prosecution turned out to be built on rot. So maybe we’re both having a weird week.”
He leans in slightly, lowering his voice. “You think the Oversight Panel is going to save you? You think transparency statutes mean anything when the Senate decides you’re a liability?”
I can smell his breath—caff and something minty trying to mask stress. “I don’t think it’s about saving me.”
“Oh?” His eyes flicker. “Then what is it about?”
I hold his gaze. “It’s about finally dragging the truth into the light, even if it burns.”
Thane’s jaw jumps. “You’re going to get yourself burned first.”
“Then stop standing so close,” I say, and walk past him.
My hands are shaking by the time I reach Briefing Room Four, but I refuse to let anyone see it. I tuck the tremor into my spine, lock my shoulders, and step inside.
The room is packed.
Not with the press—yet—but with tribunal officials, oversight liaisons, and security that looks like they’ve been told to expect someone to pull a weapon out of their sleeve.
The lights are too bright. The walls are lined with portable holopanels showing scrolling legal language in neat columns—emergency transparency statutes, panel charters, jurisdiction clauses.
It’s the kind of thing that looks boring until you realize it’s the foundation of a power shift.
High Arbiter Solenne Drax stands at the front, hands clasped behind her back, posture impeccable. She looks like she hasn’t slept in a week, but if she has, the exhaustion hasn’t made it past her eyes.
When she sees me, she tilts her head—just a fraction.
“Liaison Ardent,” she says, voice carrying. “Front row.”
I move toward her, the room parting like I’m contagious. Someone whispers, “That’s her,” and someone else whispers back, “Yeah. The leak girl,” as if I’m a scandal with legs.
I stop two steps in front of Drax, waiting.
She lowers her voice so only I can hear. “You’re trending again.”
“I’m honored,” I mutter.
Her mouth twitches—almost a smile, but it dies before it’s born. “This is not a time for gallows humor.”
“I’m not sure what else I have,” I say.
Drax’s gaze sharpens. “Then borrow mine. We are moving from individual negligence to systemic accountability. Today. Publicly.”
My stomach dips. “Publicly.”
“Yes.” She turns slightly, gesturing to the holopanels. “The Independent Oversight Panel has been formally established under emergency transparency statutes. The charter is already signed. The Senate tried to stall it. They failed.”
I blink. “They… failed?”
“Because the leak forced their hand,” she says, and there’s steel in her tone. “Because the broadcast made concealment impossible. Because the tribunal was about to become a martyr factory and everyone with half a brain realized what that would do to the ceasefire.”
A man in a dark civilian suit steps forward—a panel representative, maybe. His badge reads Oversight Liaison: Kellan Mirov.
He nods at Drax, then looks at me. “Selene Ardent?”
I stiffen. “Yes.”
“Your anomaly flag triggered one of the mandatory statute clauses,” he says, almost like he’s explaining weather. “Your documentation of a timestamp variance under an active prosecution—paired with evidence of unlogged access attempts—meets threshold for emergency independent review.”
My mouth goes dry. “So… that’s real. This is happening.”
“It is,” he says. “Subpoenas were issued this morning for Admiral Caedrin Vol’s full classified directives, including casualty modeling drafts and authorization signature chains.”
Hearing it out loud makes my skin go cold. Subpoenas. Classified directives. Casualty modeling drafts.
Words that mean: we’re not whispering anymore; we’re kicking doors in.
A sharp laugh bursts from someone behind me—high, brittle. “Good luck prying anything out of Vol’s vaults.”
Drax turns her head like a blade. “We are not asking for luck. We are invoking statute.”
The laughter dies instantly.
Mirov continues, voice steady. “Additionally, Lieutenant Garran Hale has been formally reviewed and cleared of malicious intent. The panel confirms his routing authorization did not include corridor displacement authority.”
The room shifts, like a collective exhale.
My chest tightens—not with relief exactly, but with something complicated and aching. Garran’s name has been dragged through this mess like a body behind a vehicle. He didn’t deserve it.
Drax’s eyes flick to me again. “You will be present at the press statement,” she says. “You will stand behind me.”
“Why?” My voice cracks slightly, and I hate it. “So they can point at me like a cautionary tale?”
“So they can’t say we’re hiding you,” she says, blunt. “So they can’t claim intimidation. And because—” Her gaze holds mine, unwavering. “—you are part of this record now, whether you like it or not.”
My throat tightens. “I don’t like it.”
“I didn’t ask,” she says, and then her voice drops, softer, just enough to almost feel like mercy. “Keep your face neutral. Do not speak unless I signal you. Do not react, even if they try to provoke you.”
“They will,” I say, because I can already hear it in my head: Are you doing this for revenge? Are you using your grief as a weapon? Did you sleep with the defendant?
Drax’s eyes narrow. “Let them. The panel charter speaks louder than their questions.”
A chime sounds overhead—three tones, descending. The press is being admitted.
The door at the back slides open, and the room floods with motion: journalists, cameras, drones, microphones held on poles like spears.
The noise hits like a wall—voices overlapping, calling names, demanding statements.
The smell changes too: perfume, sweat, synthetic hair products, the hot metal scent of camera casings.
I step back into position behind Drax, hands folded in front of me, fingers interlaced so tightly my knuckles ache.
The first reporter shouts, “High Arbiter! Is it true the tribunal is being replaced?”
Another one, louder: “Is Admiral Vol being charged?”
A drone dips low enough that I can see my reflection in its lens—eyes wide, face too pale.
Drax steps forward and raises one hand. The room quiets—not because they respect her, but because they want the quote.
Her voice comes out calm, controlled, and loud enough to fill the space without shouting.
“Under emergency transparency statutes invoked this morning, an Independent Oversight Panel has been formally established to review wartime directives, including Sacrificial Stabilization Doctrine and the Kirell corridor override decision.”
Flash. Flash. Flash. Cameras firing like tiny explosions.
A reporter cuts in. “So Fleet Commander Varos is no longer being sentenced?”
Drax doesn’t blink. “Sentencing has been rescheduled under expanded investigative authority.”
Another voice, sharp: “Does that mean he’s getting off?”
Drax’s jaw tightens. “It means the tribunal’s scope has evolved from individual negligence to systemic accountability. We will not deliver a verdict built on an incomplete record.”
My pulse thuds in my ears. Incomplete record. She’s saying it. Out loud.
A reporter’s gaze flicks past Drax and lands on me like a hook. “Liaison Ardent—”
Drax lifts her hand again, cutting it off. “Questions will be directed to me.”