The gathered host of the Gzolthit Terminal stood in mute tension, a tableau of steel and flesh held rigid by the weight of history unfolding before them. Vashante, the Eidolon, remained still, poised between the two great banners as Isbet Hash stepped forward, her gait measured yet deliberately unhurried. The eerie shimmer of her compound eyes revealed nothing. Still, Vashante knew the matriarch of the Hash family—the far-removed descendent and manifold great, great goddaughter of the mythical Centric Hash—was as much an actor as she was a warlord. Every movement was calculated, every breath drawn to bolster the weight of her presence. The watching soldiers, rigid in their formations, hung on the moment, uncertain of the lines being drawn in the dust before them. Each faction knew that the wrong movement, the wrong breath, could be the spark that ignited this fragile stillness into battle.

  When she spoke, her voice was clear and imperious.

  “I came from the towering heights of Genmabandon to see with my own eyes if the legends of Lady Bhaeryn are real.” There was a flourish in her tone, a deliberate performance for those assembled. Her voice, rich with the weight of her station, echoed through the vaulted, biomechanical expanse of the terminal, amplifying her words. The walls themselves seemed to carry her intent.

  The silence of the assembled ranks deepened, each faction awaiting their Lady’s response. Vashante’s gaze flicked to Bee, seated upon her biocrawler’s throne. Sickly and pale, the Lady barely seemed to register the words, her shoulders rising and falling with shallow breaths.

  Her dark eyes, dulled by illness, traced the space between herself and Isbet without any hint of surprise or indignation. She said nothing and the quiet grew heavier, pressing against every throat, every shoulder.

  Isbet took the silence as invitation. “Then tell me,” she continued, turning slightly so her voice carried through the cavernous space, “Is it true that the Trailing City of Sestchek has fallen?”

  For a moment, all was still. The moment stretched, an unbearable weight between them.

  Then, Bee’s spoke, weak but certain: “It is true.”

  Murmurs rippled through the assembled forces. The confirmation carried a finality, a grim acknowledgement that no one wished to say aloud. The ancient city was gone. A bulwark of centuries, reduced to nothing but a carcass.

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  Isbet’s expression was unreadable, but her next words came with a sharpened edge. “Then the Immortal has allowed her empire to fall. And if Sestchek may perish, then no realm is safe.” She turned, gesturing to the warriors at her back, to the banners that stood beside her own. “We have come,” she declared, “to ensure the safety of my family, our domain, and the future of our servants.”

  Vashante’s jaw tightened. She recognised the theatre in Isbet’s words, the statesmanship in her proclamations. This was not merely a declaration of allegiance; it was an opening move. A shift in the balance. She could feel the subtle tremor running through her own troops, the shift in footing among the Hash family’s soldiery. None wished to be the first to act, to fracture the tenuous stability in this chamber of iron and bone. And Vashante, sharp-eyed and wary, knew that it was a move toward power.

  Then, the turn.

  Isbet turned, her plated arm rising, her clawed hand pointed not at Bee, not at her other Knights Consort—but at Vashante herself.

  “This—” she spat the word, voice turning venomous, “this traitor dares to greet me?”

  Vashante’s engineered framework turned to ice.

  “She who, after being welcomed into my domain following her humiliation in the court of the Lord of Bones, repaid my hospitality with treachery?” Isbet’s voice rose, emboldened with fury. “This thing, this monster, who stole my children from me?”

  The words struck like blows, each syllable carving deeper into Vashante’s resolve. She forced herself to remain impassive, to keep her stance steady even as her insides churned. She had expected abuse, but not this—not here, not before all eyes. Her breath came slow and measured, each second a careful calculation to manage her reactions and maintain a stoic facade.

  Isbet’s eyes gleamed with a bitter fire as she took another step forward. “This creature,” she hissed, “Who delivered my children to the beast that slaughtered my Lord-Husband?”

  The silence was suffocating. The warriors of the Hash family did not move. The black-bannered knights at Vashante’s back did not move.

  Vashante did not move.

  Then, slowly, inexorably, Vashante turned her gaze toward Bee, toward her Lady seated atop her grand biocrawler. Even in her sickness, Bee’s dark eyes met hers. They were tired. Weak. Impenetrable.

  Isbet’s voice rang out once more, a final demand, a final condemnation. “I will not discuss terms while this hound stands before me.”

  Vashante did not look away from Bee, her lips pressing into a thin line, waiting for some word, some reprieve. But when Bee finally spoke, it came with only two words:

  “Leave us.”

  The Eidolon felt something deep within her crumble—to be seen by Bee, like this. She obeyed. And worst of all, she knew she deserved the condemnation.