The victory celebrations lasted through the night.
Soldiers drank themselves into oblivion, grateful to be alive. Civilians emerged from shelters to find their city still standing. Musicians played in the streets, voices raised in songs of survival and triumph.
Damien watched it all from Lyristae's private balcony, the sounds of revelry distant but persistent.
He'd cleaned up. Changed clothes. Removed the physical evidence of slaughter from his skin and hair. But he could still feel it – the echoes of each kill, the weight of thousands of deaths, the power that had surged through him.
The door behind him opened. Lyristae stepped out, carrying two glasses of wine.
"Thought you might want company," she said, offering him a glass. "Or at least alcohol."
"Both are welcome." He accepted the wine, noting her appearance with the enhanced perception the Second Core provided. She looked tired but triumphant. Satisfied. "How are you holding up?"
