The middle ground is gone.
And Ashcroft stands alone.
By morning, Ashcroft speaks again.
This time, not to me.
To the entire divine network.
We intercept the transmission.
His face appears on dozens of small screens.
Not in rage.
In conviction.
“They will fracture you,” he says calmly.
“They will destabilize your children.”
“They will promise balance and deliver collapse.”
He looks directly into the camera.
“You saw it.”
He shows footage.
Not of Asher.
Not of the blade.
But of me.
Severing the axis.
Silver field cutting abruptly.
The baby’s signature dropping.
“They will silence your blood when it becomes inconvenient.”
My stomach turns.
He’s reframing.
I didn’t protect.
I suppressed.
“They claim autonomy,” he continues.
“But autonomy without discipline is extinc
