Five months passed like water through fingers.
The Guardian base on Solaria looked nothing like the one on Morir.
Where Morir's facility had been functional—obsidian floors, practical lighting, military efficiency—Solaria's was elegant. Crystal walls that refracted light into prismatic patterns. Gardens growing in suspended alcoves, their plants cultivated from a dozen different worlds. Architecture that suggested wealth rather than warfare, comfort rather than combat readiness.
George Gibson stood in the central command room, hands clasped behind his back, staring at a holographic display that covered an entire wall. Mission logs. Operative reports. Resource allocations. The administrative machinery of an organization that spanned galaxies.
His cultivation base pressed against the room like a physical weight.
