The chamber devolved into a cacophony of panicked shouts and barked orders. The Chief Justice was on his feet, his face crimson, yelling for the Praetorians to establish control. The admirals surged forward, creating a chaotic barrier between the public gallery and the unfolding crisis. But for me, the chaos was a symphony I understood. I had spent a decade conducting orchestras of plasma fire and screaming metal. This was not a courtroom. It was a kill box, and Lilia had just made a fatal tactical error.
She thought her hostage gave her leverage. She was wrong.
The two Praetorian guards closest to her were frozen, their plasma rifles half-raised. Their faces were masks of professional conflict: protect the asset, neutralize the threat. But Arthur, traitor or not, was still a Vice-Admira
