Rex stood in the garden, his hands steady at his sides. He listened to the speech, a masterpiece of sincere, brutal honesty, and realized he was the one who had provided the conditions for this very moment.
He had been the catalyst for the carnage, the hand that had redirected the meteor, the force that had turned a massacre into a sacrifice. He kept his face a mask of respectful solemnity, refusing to dwell on the cold, mathematical truth beneath the ceremony's weight: that the death of Veylor was a calculated outcome of a high-stakes engagement.
He glanced at Iris. She stood three meters to his left, her eyes fixed on Valentina.
She was listening to the words about cost and value, but her spirit seemed to be miles away, standing on those western cliffs, feeling a wind that actually meant something.
Rex watched her, and a dry, clinical thought drifted through his mind: 'Grief is the most honest thing a human being produces.'
