Ashes Of The Throne | Part I

Chapter 162 | The Daughter, The Mage & Tomorrowland

***** 11:45 PM *****

Teshia hesitated at the office door, her fingers hovering just above the handle. The weight of the moment pressed down on her like a physical force, her chest tight and her breath uneven. She cast a nervous glance at Vause, who stood beside her, his tall frame rigid and unmoving, his expression carved from stone.

"They're going to hate me for this," she whispered, her voice trembling as her hands fidgeted against the worn fabric of her shirt.

"They don't have to like you, Teshia," Vause replied, his voice low and unyielding, each word measured and sharp. "They need to listen. That's all that matters." His dark eyes bore into hers, steady and unflinching. "The war isn't waiting for us to feel ready. If we don't act, there won't be a tomorrow for them to hate you in."

She flinched at the harsh truth of his words, but nodded. Her fingers tightened into fists at her sides as she drew in a shaky breath, trying to still the quiver in her knees. "Okay," she murmured, her voice barely audible. "Okay, I can do this."

"You don't have a choice," Vause said bluntly, his hand resting firmly on her shoulder as he gave it a light squeeze. It wasn't comforting exactly, but it was grounding—like he was anchoring her to the moment. "Let's go."

The late hour draped Allegiant's halls in an eerie stillness, broken only by the faint glow of holographic displays and muted wall sconces. The office was no exception. The low light played tricks on the edges of the room, softening the fatigue written into the faces of those gathered around the long, cluttered table. Half-eaten meals, scattered tablets, and hastily abandoned cups of coffee filled every spare inch of the surface. The quiet hum of drones monitoring incoming reports mixed with the occasional clink of a fork or rustle of paper.

Teshia hesitated in the doorway, her pulse quickening as she scanned the room. The people here—warriors, strategists, and leaders of Allegiant—weren't just names in intercepted transmissions anymore. They were real, intimidating in their quiet focus. Their gazes shifted to her, curiosity flickering across weary faces, and she felt the weight of being seen in a way she hadn't in years.

Her eyes landed first on Mya. The doctor sat near the end of the table, a tablet in one hand, the other gently bouncing a sleeping child cradled in her lap. The soft glow of patient vitals flickered above her wristband, casting faint patterns across her rumpled pink pajamas. Despite her exhaustion, there was a calming steadiness about her, her quiet hum barely audible over the room's low din.

Next was Richie, who lounged in his chair with the kind of easy confidence that belied the tension in the room. A hologram hovered just above his arm, displaying troop logistics, which he swiped through casually with one hand while snacking with the other. Crumbs dusted his shirt, and an empty energy drink can teetered precariously on the edge of the table. His relaxed posture felt out of place, yet his sharp, calculating glances betrayed his awareness.

To his left was Jesse, her fiery hair pulled back tightly, her expression sharp and unwavering. She leaned forward, arms braced on the table as she scribbled notes onto a glowing tablet, occasionally glancing at the central display showing encrypted messages and shifting tactical overlays. Even in the stillness, she radiated command—no wasted movement, no flicker of uncertainty.

Teshia's gaze shifted to the man sitting farther down. His polished appearance—broad shoulders, hair slicked back like he'd just stepped out of a holo-ad—contrasted sharply with the disheveled chaos around him. Feet propped on the chair beside him, he sipped from a bottle of something decidedly not regulation as he scanned the holographic news feed scrolling in front of him. She guessed this was Toni, his deceptively casual demeanor betrayed by the sharp glint in his eyes.