[SERA — POV]
She didn't sleep.
She went through the motions of trying—lay down in her clothes, stared at the ceiling—and gave up at four. She made tea she didn't drink and stood at the window and watched Veyrath go through that quiet hour before five when even the city seemed to be breathing differently, slower, like something enormous resting between efforts.
She thought about her uncle's face when he read the documents.
Fifteen years she'd watched that face. Watched it be certain, be commanding, be right. There was a comfort in that, even when it had been hard—even in the worst years, when the grief was still fresh and the training was brutal and she'd cried exactly twice and both times alone. He'd been certain. He'd given her something to be certain alongside.
She'd built herself a
