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I believe in structure, the way sailors believe in stars. Lately, the constellations look… edited.
I am told I appear austere on camera. Good. Calm men are underestimated until the dam holds. The Accord is a dam—necessary, unsentimental. Yet I watched Ra step onto that balcony and felt the grid flicker. Not the power grid. The one behind your eyes that says yes when your soul means maybe.
My devotion to Althea is not a rumor; it is a testament to architecture. She is the clean line in a messy age, and the distance between us is a curriculum in restraint. Even so, Rome taught me that love unlicensed by doctrine has its own authority. Mehen believes authority must be armored. Lion believes it should dance. I believe it must answer for itself.
Recruits ask me if Homo Galacticus will be happier. Wrong metric. Ask if you will be true. If your enhanced lungs only buy you time to hold your breath longer under someone else’s expectations, decline politely.
I will stand my post. I will brief, debrief, and then sleep for four hours, like a sacrament. If Ra demands the veil ripped, I will hold the line so civilians can watch without bleeding. If Mehen asks whether the dam can stretch to fit a river that refuses to be straight, I’ll tell him: rivers win. So should we.
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