Riven Kaelthorne did not sleep.
Sleep implied rest. It implied surrender. And Riven had learned a long time ago that surrender emotional or otherwise was a luxury men like him did not survive.
He stood at the window of his quarters, hands clasped behind his back, posture perfect despite the ache coiling low in his spine. The glass was cool beneath his palm when he finally pressed it there, grounding himself in something solid, something that did not feel.
Highcrest stretched beneath him in disciplined lines of steel and light. Towers rose like sentinels. Streets pulsed with ordered movement. Patrol drones traced silent arcs through the sky.
A city held together by rules.
By sacrifice.
By men who learned how to bleed quietly.
Riven had given everything to keep Highcrest standing
