The compound found its breath somewhere between the session ending and the delegations dispersing, and what it breathed out was the exhaustion of a place that had been braced for impact and could finally, temporarily, stop bracing.
I heard all of it secondhand.
I was in the wine cellar.
Alone, for the first time since Portland — genuinely alone, not tactical isolation, not the wary solitude of a rogue counting exits. The clean room had been swept and declared secure, and I had told everyone I needed an hour, and everyone had looked at Darius, and Darius had said: "An hour." No condition. Just recognition.
I sat on the floor with my back against the cold stone and the lamplight cutting the cellar into amber and shadow, and I let myself feel it.
Not the strategy. Not the bond. Just — wh
