The hearing had been scheduled as a measured thing: closed doors, recorded testimony, a neutral auditor from the ringed world's council. The academy prepared its packet like a surgeon preparing a tray—evidence laid out, chain of custody sealed, witnesses briefed. Director Sethi wanted the process to look inevitable; Captain Rhea wanted it to be precise. Arjun practiced his statements until the cadence felt like a tool he could wield without trembling.
They expected spokespeople and lawyers. They did not expect a man who moved like a rumor.
He arrived in the gallery with the kind of casual confidence that had been honed by money and habit. Marcell Vale's presence filled the room the way a storm fills a sky: slow, inevitable, and with a pressure that made people shift in their seats. He was not a contractor foreman or a courier boss; he was a logistics magnate with a private fleet and a public face that smiled for cameras. He wore a coat cut to hide the way he carried himself—hands that had learned to sign ledgers and hands that had learned to make threats look like offers.
Vale did not speak at first. He let his representatives file a polite protest about jurisdiction and process. He let his spokespeople call for independent review and for the academy to avoid spectacle. Then, when the room had settled into the rhythm of legal motion, he rose and walked to the witness rail as if he had come to offer a courtesy.
"You have my attention," he said, voice smooth and practiced. "I have always believed in private initiative on the frontier. The academy trains guardians; houses move goods. We are partners, not enemies." His smile was a map of charm. "If there has been wrongdoing, I will cooperate. But let us not mistake zeal for justice."
The auditors listened with the polite patience of people who had seen power perform its rituals before. Captain Rhea's jaw did not move. Director Sethi's fingers tapped a tablet. Arjun felt the halo at his throat like a compass that had been nudged toward a single point. Vale's presence reframed the ledger: this was no longer a shadow network of subcontractors and frightened couriers; this was a house with a name and a face.
After the formalities Vale asked a question that landed like a stone. "Cadet Arjun," he said, turning his attention to him with the casual interest of a man who had been given a toy to examine, "you have been very public in your work. You have stitched corridors and exposed routes. Tell me—what do you hope to gain by making seams visible?"
The question was a test dressed as curiosity. Arjun answered plainly, as he had been taught: he spoke of public safety, of the settlements that had been used as testbeds, of the couriers who had been coerced. He did not mention his mother's alley or the photograph; he did not let Vale's gaze find the private ledger in his pocket. He spoke of facts and evidence and the academy's duty.
Vale listened and then, with a small, almost indulgent smile, said, "Noble. But noble things can be naive. The frontier is not a classroom. It is a market. People survive by making deals. If you insist on making seams public, you must accept that others will try to profit from your visibility." He folded his hands and let the implication hang in the air.
The hearing continued with the slow, legal motions the academy trusted. The auditors cataloged evidence, the contractor houses filed counterclaims, and the outpost representatives pressed for protections. Director Sethi prepared a secure recommendation for a formal inquiry into Vale & Marrow's contracts. The room filed the facts into different ledgers. But Vale's presence had shifted the tenor: the opposition now had a name and a philosophy, and that philosophy argued that private routes were the only way to keep the frontier moving.
After the hearing Vale did not leave immediately. He moved through the gallery with the practiced ease of a man who knew how to be seen without being touched. Ishaan watched him from the edge of the room with a look that was almost respect and almost calculation. When Vale passed near the academy's delegation he inclined his head in a gesture that was both greeting and measurement.
Outside, the city's forums churned. Vale's spokespeople spun the hearing into a narrative about overreach and academy hubris. The contractor feeds filled with op‑eds that argued for nuance and for the importance of private logistics. The smear that had once used Arjun's mother's photograph now had a new frame: the academy versus the frontier's practical needs. The public's appetite for spectacle made the conflict louder.
That night, in the low room with maps and practice rigs, Captain Rhea cataloged the day's facts with the economy she always used. "He's not a subcontractor," she said. "He's a principal. That changes the calculus. We can pursue the ledger through legal channels, but we must also prepare for a campaign. Houses with reach will use public opinion and private pressure." Her voice left no room for melodrama; it left room for strategy.
Ishaan came to Arjun afterward with a look that measured risk like a man who had learned to trade in it. "You made him visible," he said. "That makes you useful and dangerous. Houses will come with offers and threats. Some will be polite. Some will not." He tapped the dossier he had kept at his side. "If you want to cut the route, you need to follow the money where it sleeps. I can help. But remember—help has a cost."
Arjun felt the halo at his throat like a compass that had been nudged. Vale's question—what did he hope to gain—echoed in his head. He had wanted to become strong enough to hold corridors and to keep people whole. He had wanted to learn the craft until his hands could stitch without leaving scars. Now the stakes had shifted: his visibility had made him a symbol in a larger contest between public duty and private profit. The academy could pursue the ledger; Vale could wage a campaign.
That night he walked the market with the photograph folded in his pocket. Vendors watched him with the wary politeness of people who had learned to read leverage as easily as price. He stopped at his mother's stall and found her folding a cloth with the same steady hands she had always used. She did not ask about Vale or the hearing. She asked instead about the stitch he had made that morning—how it had felt to hold a corridor under pressure, what it cost.
He told her the truth he had learned in the mentorship circle: that stitches were tools and that tools left marks. He told her about Harun's injury on the bridge and about the courier who had been coerced. He did not tell her about Vale's smile or Ishaan's offers. She listened with the steady patience of someone who had learned to live with small, persistent risks. When he finished she reached out and touched the halo at his throat as if it were a talisman.
"You keep people safe," she said. "That's what matters." Her voice was small and fierce. "But keep yourself safe too."
Arjun wrote the reflective entries the Phoenix‑root medic required that night: the hearing's facts, Vale's presence, Ishaan's offer, and the way visibility had become both shield and target. Each line eased the fatigue thread a little. Each line made the halo steadier. He folded the photograph into his pocket and, for the first time since the smear began, let himself feel the shape of the contest ahead: not only audits and courier trails, but a named opponent who would not be satisfied with quiet defeats.