You call it purge; I call it proof you feared us enough to learn our names. Empires write history. Survivors annotate.

I remember our cities under mountains, our lullabies in frequencies your ears filed under myth. Mehen razed what he could find and called it mercy. Perhaps it was—on a long enough curve, mercy and efficiency hold hands. We bled. We hid. We adapted. That is what species do when gods audition for CEO.

I read your Accord propaganda—stipends, telepathy bonuses, family leave for the ascended. You sell survival like a gym membership and forget to mention the price of the mirror. We were clumsy colonizers; don’t romanticize us. But power is a lens, and you are squinting through it as if it can’t warp.

Do I hate Ra? No. War taught me to fear the soft-voiced ones who ask the right questions at the wrong time. She is asking. Good. When prey evolves into chorus, hunters learn harmony or go hungry. Tell your steward this: the universe does not do monopolies for long. Diversity is not virtue; it’s physics.

If you meet one of us again—and you will—remember that extinction has a wicked sense of humor. It makes mentors out of former monsters. Offer tea. Keep a knife. Learn quickly.