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She believes she dictates the terms of her existence.

“Dr. Korvann.” She stops several paces from the diagnostic table, her plain blue eyes scanning the empty room. “Your unit mentioned a breakthrough. Where are Lirael and Cyrel?”

“They were called to the logistics deck to prepare the medical transport manifest for your departure.” I gesture toward the chair beside the table, keeping my voice devoid of inflection. “The virus adapts too quickly to the synthesized antibodies. I realized we are using degraded samples. The cellular membranes begin breaking down outside the host body within minutes.”

She studies my face. Her gaze narrows, searching for a trap.

She finds only scientific focus because I am entirely committed to understanding the pathogen. I simply omit my broader intentions.

“I need a fresh draw,” I continue, picking up the extractor. “Pulled directly into a stabilizing compound so I can observe the immediate neutralization process. It is the only way to map the exact binding sequence.”

Margaret weighs the logic. She dislikes me. I can see the wariness in her narrowed eyes and rigid spine.

But her commitment to curing her dying soldiers overrides her instincts.

She unbuttons her left cuff and rolls up the pristine white cotton sleeve, exposing the beautiful, jagged scar.

“One vial,” she dictates, her tone leaving no room for argument.

“One is all I need.”

I press the silver extractor against her pale skin. Dark red blood flows into the cylinder. The machine clicks, sealing the sample.

I pull the device away and press the modified dermal patch over the puncture.

The sedative enters her bloodstream.

Margaret takes a single step back, wrenching her arm away. She opens her mouth, likely to issue another command, but the words die in her throat. Her pupils dilate as the chemical races through her nervous system.

Surprised realization flashes across her face.

“What—”

Her knees buckle.

She collapses.

I catch her by the shoulders, absorbing the dead weight of her small frame, and lower her carefully to the floor.

My operatives slip into the laboratory seconds later. They move silently, without the emotional theatrics that plague the royal guard. Two of them guide a hovering medical gurney through the doors.

“Take her to my private containment chamber beneath the eastern medical complex,” I command, stepping away from the unconscious human. “Connect her to the automated extraction system and maintain the sedative at a steady cycle. Monitor her organ function continuously. She must remain alive and completely unconscious.”

They transfer Margaret onto the gurney and secure her wrists and ankles.

“And the digital records?” the tallest operative asks.

“Scrub the security feeds.” I wave a hand over my console, initializing the deletion protocol for this sector. “Erase the assistive unit’s path logs and wipe the entry codes.”

The spymaster will not believe she wandered into the lower gardens or returned to the ship without telling him. He knows her too well.

Nothing will convince him that she left willingly.

But the missing records will deprive him of a direction. Instead of pursuing us, he will have to search every transport hub, medical facility, subterranean passage, and private estate in the capital.

We do not need to fool him. We only need to delay him.

“By the time he isolates the anomaly,” I continue, “we will be ready to relocate her to the off-world facility.”