We do not march to the western ridge with claws out and teeth bared.
We send a message.
And I insist on writing it myself.
The war room feels different tonight.
Not reactive. Not frantic.
Deliberate.
Morgan stands at the map, marking Ashcroft’s last known position. Kade leans over the table, shoulders tight but listening. Kieran stands opposite him, arms crossed, unreadable as always. Thorne is seated, pen poised, ready to draft whatever legal gymnastics we require.
“I’ll go,” Kade says for the third time.
“No,” I answer for the third time.
“You can’t put yourself within range of them. Not pregnant. Not when you’re the convergence axis.”
“I won’t go physically,” I clarify. “But the message comes from me.”
“That makes you the negotiator.”
“Yes.”
“And if they interpret negotiati
