On paper, nothing has changed.
The Skybreaker’s still chained to the deck. Dock workers still shout over the grind of grav-lifts. Welders still throw sparks against the far wall. Somewhere, someone is still burning protein to the point of war crime.
But under it, everything feels tilted.
It’s not just the silence-web lurking behind the private hold door Eryndor and I found. It’s the way my resonance won’t settle. The way the Codex keeps dragging phantom curves of glyphs behind my eyes and then—like a glitch—stutters where it used to pour straight through.
Because of him.
Because of what happened when his hand closed over my wrist and my ring and the spike hit both of us instead of just me.
Harmonic interference.
It’s such a Cassian word. I shouldn’t like how it sits under my skin.
