Chapter 49
DARUN
The street glows blue-gray in the newborn light.
Morning fog clings to the paving stones, curling like ghosts around my boots.
My breath steams in the cool air, and each exhale carries the taste of iron and sleeplessness.
My claws drag faintly against the stone walls as I walk, as if the city itself can ground me.
The war’s echo lives in these backstreets—the stink of oil, the faint ozone from passing hovers, the ghost-cry of an old tram.
I think of Dowron’s face, smooth as polished steel.
The promise of “billions may die” if I spoke truth.
His words slither around my skull. You did the right thing.
But my gut knows better. I think of Amy’s eyes at the kitchen door, streaked with tears, her arms folded like armor.
I think of the little girl asleep in the next room—the one who called me Daddy with a sleepy smile and believed I’d always been there.
I’ve lost Amy’s trust. I’ve broken the story she built. And worst of all, I almost lost the right to stand in that apartment at all. But even as the sun pushes weakly through the haze, I know what I have to do next.
A hoverbus roars past, spraying mist. The smell of burnt fuel clings to my nostrils. The war isn’t over for me—not until I set this right. My hands curl. My claws bite into my palms until I feel a sting. I welcome it. Pain keeps me awake.
By the time I circle back to her building, my legs ache. My coat is damp. The sky has gone pale gold at the horizon. In my pocket, Libra’s crayon drawing is crumpled but intact. Good luck, Darun! in crooked letters. It feels heavier than armor.
Inside the apartment, the stillness is almost sacred.
The scent of last night’s dinner lingers faintly with the softer smell of her shampoo, of crayons, of small shoes by the door.
I step through, moving as quietly as a ghost. Amy’s desk sits by the window, paper scattered, a mug half-drunk.
Her chair is empty. She’s sleeping down the hall.
I sit at her desk. The chair creaks under me. The wood grain is smooth under my claws. The morning light catches dust motes and turns them into drifting sparks. I stare at her pad, at the blank page glowing. The Holonet unit hums faintly.
I lean forward, hit record. My own reflection stares back at me from the screen—a scaled face lined with fatigue, eyes red. My voice comes out rougher than I intend, but I let it.
“Amy,” I start. My throat tightens. “I chose wrong.”
I breathe in. The smell of paper and ink fills me. “I chose duty over you. Over truth. Over our daughter. I will never do that again.”
My claws drum the desk once, a faint click.
“I don’t expect forgiveness. But I’m done being Dowron’s mouth.
If there’s a chance left, I’ll take it. I’ll tell the truth.
Whatever it costs.” My chest aches, but I keep speaking.
“You deserved better. She deserved better. I’m going to make it right, even if it ends me. ”
I stop. The recording light blinks. I swallow, add one last line, voice low: “I love you both.”
I hit send. The file saves. The hum of the unit seems louder now. I leave it on her desk, the screen glowing faintly in the dim.
I stand. My knees ache. My hands tremble. I look once down the hallway toward the bedrooms. The door to Libra’s room is ajar, a sliver of pink blanket visible, her tiny foot sticking out. I can hear her steady breathing, soft and rhythmic, like a tide.
The street outside is brighter when I leave, but it feels heavier. I walk until I can’t feel my feet. I’m not ready to face them. I don’t know why. Maybe I lost a piece of myself in battle. But soon. Very soon.