Victor Numen didn't smile often.
When he did, people tended to assume the world was about to end.
This morning, however, he smiled for a far more dangerous reason: Elias Clarke, who is rational to the point of arrogance, had slipped during a conversation and referred to their upcoming diplomatic operation as a honeymoon.
He'd replayed the word at least six times since breakfast. It improved with repetition.
The command center shimmered in quiet light, a cathedral of glass, steel, and restrained power. Holographic maps stretched across the air, the northern ocean glowing with red ether scars, storm signatures spreading like veins through Poseidon's domain. The technicians worked in silence, careful not to draw Victor's attention unless they had to.
He watched the projection without blinking, one hand resting loosely on the console. "The readings are worse," he murmured. "That's not just a storm. Something is feeding on the current."
