"Governor Krell," Ethan added, keeping his tone neutral, voice steady as a steel blade. "I wasn't aware I'd shaped anything. Just did what had to be done."
The words were stripped of bravado, delivered like a statement of fact. Yet they lingered in the air, heavy with the kind of weariness only survivors carried.
Krell's smile didn't waver, but there was a flicker of something behind his sharp gaze. A glint of curiosity, maybe even amusement, as if he found Ethan's deflection more intriguing than any boast.
"Modesty is refreshing," Krell said, releasing Ethan's hand with a deliberate slowness, as though reluctant to break physical contact. His fingers unfurled smoothly, and he let them rest against the table with calculated ease. "But unnecessary. You led a fractured coalition of mercenaries, resistance fighters, and an under-equipped local guard force against one of the most dangerous criminal syndicates in the Ashen Sector. That's not just necessity, Mr. Walker. That's leadership."
Ethan's expression remained unreadable, his face a fortress of controlled indifference. He didn't flinch or shift in his seat, didn't rise to the bait of flattery. He just held Krell's gaze like a man who'd stared into the abyss long enough to know it had teeth.
"Leadership," Ethan echoed, voice flat. "Or desperation. Hard to tell the difference when survival's the only option."
For a beat, neither of them spoke. The room hummed with quiet tension, the faint thrumming of hidden energy conduits pulsing beneath the floor like a distant heartbeat.
Without breaking eye contact, Ethan lifted a hand and gestured toward the sleek, circular table in the center of the room. It extended organically from the floor, its crystalline surface faintly refracting the ambient light. The table was flawless, seamless, a perfect metaphor for the Federation itself: polished, efficient, and utterly detached from the grit of the real world.
"Take a seat," Ethan said, voice as steady as a gun barrel.
Krell inclined his head in a subtle nod of acknowledgment. He moved with an unhurried grace, lowering himself into one of the hovering chairs. The chair adjusted instantly, nanite-infused cushions rippling as they reshaped to fit his body with almost intrusive precision. Krell rested his hands on the armrests, fingers steepled, posture impeccable, the image of composed authority.
Ethan sat across from him, his movements slower, more deliberate. He leaned back in his chair, stretching one leg over the other with an air of casual detachment. But beneath that carefully constructed posture, his body was tense. Every muscle coiled like a wire stretched to its limit. His instincts never let him forget what Krell represented: not just power, but the kind of influence that could crush entire planets without firing a single shot.
By the door, Captain Voelker remained motionless like a living monolith. His matte-black armor absorbed the light, making him seem like a void standing in the corner. He didn't shift, didn't even tilt his head. But Ethan felt his presence like a cold shadow. Watching. Calculating.
Krell studied Ethan like a scientist observing an unpredictable specimen. "I read the after-action reports," he began, voice low and measured, as if each word had been pre-screened for maximum effect. "They paint you as a pivotal figure. Without your intervention, Kynara would've fallen completely to the Black Sun Syndicate or worse, to Krenna himself. Yet you downplay your role."
Ethan shrugged, the movement barely perceptible. "I'm a merc. I get paid to shoot problems, not write history holo-books."
Krell chuckled, the sound low and resonant, like a man genuinely entertained by the response. "And yet history seems intent on writing you into its pages, whether you want it or not."
Ethan's jaw tightened, but he masked it with a slow exhale. He didn't trust men like Krell, men who spoke in riddles and veiled compliments, who wielded words like knives and used people like pawns. But he also understood their type. Knew how to navigate their games.
"History's a liar," Ethan said, voice cold. "It cleans up the blood and pretends the people who died didn't matter. The only thing I care about is making sure Kynara doesn't fall apart now that the shooting's stopped."
Krell tilted his head slightly, the gleam in his eyes intensifying. "A pragmatist. Good. That makes this conversation much easier."
Ethan didn't reply. He just waited, still as stone, letting the governor reveal whatever hand he intended to play.
The room's quiet stretched out, punctuated only by the distant, barely audible thrum of Ashen Prime's orbital traffic filtering through the building's noise-dampening systems. It was like the galaxy itself was holding its breath.
Finally, Krell leaned forward, his smile unwavering but thinner, more pointed. "Tell me, Mr. Walker... what do you want?"
Ethan's eyes narrowed. He didn't answer right away. Instead, he glanced past Krell, just for a heartbeat, to the shattered cityscape of Kynara beyond the glass. The ruins. The reconstruction. The people trying to stitch their broken lives back together after years of war.
He looked back at Krell, voice low and edged with quiet steel.
"I simply want the Federation to keep its damn promises."
The room thrummed with quiet efficiency as the automated meal service engaged, filling the space with a faint hum of precision engineering. The central table split apart without a sound, the crystalline surface parting like petals. A hidden compartment rose slowly from the core, revealing meticulously arranged plates of food. A presentation so flawless it felt almost clinical.
The dishes were works of art: seared synthetic protein, glistening with a thin sheen of nutrient oil; hydropod greens arranged in spirals, their bioluminescent edges faintly glowing; delicate cubes of nutrient gel, sculpted into geometric perfection. The utensils hovered an inch above the table, held in place by subtle magnetic fields, waiting to be grasped. The entire setup felt more like a ceremony than a meal.
Governor Krell picked up a fork with a careful, deliberate grip, the movement almost reverent. He turned the utensil between his fingers, inspecting it as if evaluating the craftsmanship. Then, with practiced elegance, he speared a piece of the protein and lifted it to his mouth, chewing slowly.
"Federation cuisine," he said, voice low and rich, like he was narrating a documentary. "Nourishing, diverse, and meticulously optimized. A reflection of our values, wouldn't you agree?"
Ethan didn't touch his food. He simply folded his arms across his chest, the leather of his jacket creaking faintly with the motion. His eyes stayed on Krell, sharp and unyielding.
Krell continued, unfazed by Ethan's silence. "Kynara's local dishes are also a reflection of that diversity. Bold, untamed flavors. Spirited, in their own way." He dabbed the corner of his mouth with a cloth napkin, the movement precise, almost performative.
"You've been here before?" Ethan finally asked, voice rougher now, like he had to drag the words out through clenched teeth.
Krell inclined his head, setting his fork down with a soft clink. "Years ago. Before the Syndicate's grip fully tightened. Ashen Prime had exploratory interests in Kynara...its mineral wealth, primarily."
He lifted a glass of water, swirling it gently. The liquid caught the light, refracting it across the table in fractured beams. "But when Drakor Krenna's warlords began disrupting our operations, the previous governor made a pragmatic yet unfortunate decision. They deemed it... impractical to maintain a presence here."
Ethan scoffed, a bitter sound that barely resembled a laugh. "Impractical. Right." He leaned forward, elbows on his knees, voice edged like broken glass. "You mean convenient. Letting Kynara rot until someone else bled to fix it."
Krell didn't flinch. He just set his glass down carefully, the impact a barely audible tap against the table's surface. "Not exactly," he admitted, voice steady, unshaken. "Your assumption is only half correct. The previous tyrannical regime in Ashen Prime only thought of potential costs and gains. So we watched. We waited for a chance to turn the tables."
He tilted his head slightly, like he was inspecting Ethan under a microscope. "And then you happened. You gave us that chance."
Ethan's jaw tightened, teeth grinding together. "I didn't happen. People were dying. Someone had to do something."
"And you did," Krell said, almost gently. "You unified fractured factions, rallied civilians, and dismantled a criminal empire piece by piece. Now, because of your actions, we as the new regime can step in and rebuild properly."
Ethan's fingers curled into fists against his biceps. "Rebuild," he echoed, voice dripping with contempt. "Rebuilding infrastructure is one thing, but you can't rebuild the fractured lives of millions in Kynara."
Krell leaned forward, resting his elbows on the table, fingers steepled beneath his chin. The light caught the silver threads in his hair, making him look like a statue carved from polished stone. His voice dropped to a softer register, almost conspiratorial.
"As I mentioned," Krell said, his words slow and deliberate, "I've read the classified battle reports. Almost every detail of your campaign. The ambushes. The raids on Krenna's supply lines and the warlords strongholds. Only your final confrontation with Krenna himself at the abandoned Veilspire stronghold in the north is lacking information."
He paused, watching Ethan like a predator watching prey. "That last engagement, in particular, was apparently... extraordinary. It is said that you fought Krenna after his mutation accelerated beyond human thresholds. That he was enhanced by enormous levels of psychic energy, strong enough to contort space and reality. But you still managed to transcend yourself and somehow defeat him. People that took part in that final battle, interestingly, called you the Harbinger of Death."
Krell's eyes gleamed with something uncomfortably close to fascination. "I truly don't understand you Ethan Walker. You had the strength to escape all of this from the start, to leave this forsaken planet for better horizons. But you chose to stay, help these people whom you have no ties to and face this monstrosity that was beyond mortal comprehension. Why?"
Ethan's chest rose and fell with slow, controlled breaths. He turned his head slightly, staring past Krell, out the window at the city. The ruined skyline of Kynara sprawled out beneath them, the scars of war still raw and bleeding.
"Because people I came to care about were dying," Ethan muttered, barely above a whisper. "And someone had to make sure they didn't die for nothing in the end."
Krell studied him in silence for a long moment, his eyes searching Ethan's face like he was peeling back layers to examine whatever was left beneath. Then he nodded, as if filing that answer away in some mental archive for later analysis.
"Perhaps that's why you succeeded," Krell said, voice quieter now. "Because you still care."
Ethan didn't respond. He just kept staring out the window, overlooking a broken city.
Krell leaned back in his chair, seemingly content to let the silence stretch out between them. But there was something predatory in his patience, like he was waiting for the right moment to pounce.
The utensils still hovered above the table, untouched on Ethan's side. The food remained pristine, uneaten.