The war room didn't look like a war room.
No flashing tactical maps. No roaring generals. Just forty-seven empty chairs arranged in a circle beneath the vaulted dome of the Galactic Council Chamber—each one carved from the native stone of its civilization. The air smelled of ozone and old grief.
Luna stood in the center, barefoot.
She hadn't meant to be first. But when the summons came—All Commanders. Immediate Assembly.—she'd walked straight through the transit gate without armor, without entourage. Just her, a faded hoodie, and the faint scent of chamomile still clinging to her sleeves from last night's failed sleep.
Now she waited.
One by one, they arrived.
Admiral Vorrk of the Iron Maw Collective stomped in, his exoskeleton clanking like a tank treads. He took one look at Luna and snorted. "Where's Earth's general? Send the child home."
