Mirella sat cross-legged, breathing slow, eyes closed. The mana-lamps threw thin light across the metal walls. She had meditated like this for years to keep her cover intact.
When she opened her eyes, green light flashed. Her hair caught it like a living thing. Today was the day she had waited for—forty-five years of pretending, watching, waiting.
She pulled on the Federation coat and fastened the last buckle. Every medal on her chest told a useful lie. At the door, Jonas stood in battered armor, sword at his hip. He moved like a man who never relaxed.
"Ready?" he asked.
Mirella nodded once. No need for more words.
From a balcony, Ezra watched them go. He didn't like the way they moved together. He leaned toward Professor Sergei. "We should intercept them," he said low. "Something's wrong."
Sergei looked out at the courtyard, unreadable. "Mustafa has his unit in place," he said. "If they try anything, they'll act."
