For too long, Daegon had stood silent.
Watching. Enduring. Holding back.
But tonight, as he stood on the edge of the tower—his eyes soaking in a world he once died for—there was no grief left. No pain. No sorrow in his bones. Just a hunger, thick and eternal, forged in betrayal and crowned in truth. The night wind curled around him like it remembered his name, like it remembered the way the mountains used to tremble when he breathed.
But Daegon no longer felt kinship with nature. Not after what it did to him.
He raised his head slowly, eyes as dark as the world beneath the skin of stars.
This city, this world… they moved on like gods had never bled for them. Like guardians never shattered for their comfort. As if his bones hadn't been broken a thousand times to shield them from oblivion. And what had he gotten for it?
"Nothing," he murmured, voice sharp and steel-edged. "Not praise. Not thanks. Not even memory."
