Duke Alistair led them not to an office, but through a series of elegant, hushed corridors deeper into the private residential wing of the bastion. The ever-present hum of the Dominion guard patrols faded behind sound-dampened doors.

“My wife and daughter are waiting in the sunroom,” Alistair said, his voice low. “They know only that you are refugees from a fallen world, friends of mine in need. The guard detail is posted at the outer vestibule; my personal retinue is at the dining chamber doors. We may speak freely here.”

He opened a set of double doors into a warm, circular room bathed in the soft, artificial twilight of Caledon Prime. Two women rose from a plush sofa. The older, with graceful silver streaks in her dark hair and a kind, lined face, was introduced as Elara. The younger…

Vernon, holding tight to the ‘Laura’ persona, felt the air leave his lungs.

She was perhaps his own age, with her father’s sharp cheekbones but her mother’s warm eyes, the color of polished amber. Her hair was a cascade of chestnut waves, and she moved with an unselfconscious grace that seemed to pull all the light in the room toward her. She was introduced as Lysandra.

“Sara Kerigan, and my daughter, Laura,” Marius said smoothly, his vocal modulator rendering Sara’s pleasant, feminine tones. Vernon managed a small, practiced curtsy, his own modulator producing Laura’s soft, “It’s a pleasure.”

“The pleasure is ours,” Elara said, her smile genuine. “Any friend of Alistair’s, especially in such times…”

“We’ve prepared a late supper,” Alistair said, guiding them toward an adjoining chamber where a long, polished table was set for five. As they took their seats—Alistair at the head, Elara and Lysandra on one side, ‘Sara’ and ‘Laura’ on the other—Alistair leaned forward, his voice dropping to a murmur the servants, clearing the first course, could not hear.

“Elara, Lysandra… the truth. This is not Sara and Laura. This is Marius, my old comrade, and Vernon. Arturus’s son.”

Elara’s eyes widened, filling immediately with a profound sorrow. “Oh, my boy,” she whispered across the table to Vernon. Lysandra stared, her amber eyes scanning Vernon’s face with new, intense understanding, seeing past the wig and the makeup to the haunted young man beneath.

The meal proceeded, a strange mix of formal dining and whispered conspiracy. Over roasted fowl and steamed greens, Alistair said, “You cannot return to the Whisper. It’s too hot. You need a hole to disappear into, for a while.”

Marius, as Sara, dabbed his lips with a napkin. “A few days,” he agreed, the modulator masking any grimness. “We need to lay low, monitor Dominion and Laurien comms traffic. The radio signals here are clean, powerful. If we go quiet and unseen, we might even make them believe we died in the wreckage of Mar-Shada or drifted into the void.”

“Then you must stay here,” Elara said firmly. “We have a spare chamber in the family quarters. It’s secure.”

Lysandra spoke then, her voice clear and thoughtful. “If Laura is to be my guest, it would be most natural for her to share my rooms. It would also avoid any… logistical questions from the staff or the outer guard about a young man sharing quarters with two women.” She said it practically, but her gaze on Vernon was gentle.

Vernon’s heart hammered against the constricting bodysuit. The idea was terrifying. The idea was a relief. To be near that light, that normalcy… “I… I wouldn’t want to impose,” Laura’s voice stammered out.

“It’s no imposition,” Lysandra said, offering a small, reassuring smile.

After the meal, Alistair guided ‘Sara’ to the offered guest chamber. It was spacious, opulent, and quiet. “Thank you, Alistair,” Marius said, letting Sara’s warmth into the words. “For everything.”

“We are family,” Alistair said simply. He gestured to a guard waiting in the hall, who wheeled in a large, ornate trunk. “Some things for your stay. Gowns, mostly. Elara thought you might need a change of wardrobe.” He gave a slight, meaningful nod. “The latest fashions can be surprisingly… complex.”

Marius understood. He stepped forward and, in the guise of a grateful friend, kissed Alistair on both cheeks. “We’ll enjoy our little vacation.”

Alistair squeezed his shoulder—a gesture for Marius, not Sara—and left, the door sealing behind him.

The moment the lock clicked, the warmth drained from Sara’s posture. He went to the console by the door, engaged the full privacy shield, and turned to the trunk. Throwing open the lid, he pushed aside the layers of sumptuous fabric to reveal the truth beneath: a compact, high-gain Caledonian comms array, encrypted and military-grade, several pulse pistols, blade cartridges, and field medical kits, all nestled in false-bottomed dress boxes.

He lifted the comms device, its interface glowing. It was Dominion-encrypted, but Alistair had provided the bypass codes. His fingers flew, rerouting the signal path, masking its origin, and tuning it to the old, nearly forgotten emergency frequencies of Artanis.

He stood for a moment, then brought his hand to his throat. There was a soft, subcutaneous click. The smooth, feminine voice was gone, replaced by the rough, familiar baritone of Marius.

“This is Stormcrow,” he said, inputting Arturus’s personal encryption sequence. “On secure line. Arturus, do you read? Arturus, respond.”

Static. The hollow, empty hiss of dead space.

He repeated the call sign, his voice growing tighter. Nothing. Only the silence of the void, or a silenced comms unit.

Marius lowered the device. The hope he hadn’t dared acknowledge curdled into a cold, hard certainty in his gut. He walked to the broad window overlooking the glittering, ordered city. His reflection stared back: a handsome, weary woman in an elegant gown, her eyes holding a man’s grim resolve.

We are ghosts now, he thought. We move in the shadows, or we do not move at all.

The practical part of his mind, the part that always had the next step, nudged him. He needed to get ready for the night. The Myrden suit needed its maintenance cycle. With a sigh that was pure Marius, he lifted a hand to his chest, giving the right prosthetic breast a brief, habitual, and utterly disconnected squeeze through the fabric, checking its adhesion. The reflection mimicked the gesture, a beautiful woman touching herself, a soldier checking his gear. He turned away from the window, back to the trunk of weapons disguised as dresses, to plan their next move in the dark.