He was tired.
It wasn't just his body—it was his heart. He was tired of enduring. Of life. Of all of it.
He was tired of losing. Of weeping. Of grief that never stopped returning.
Damon sat there for what could've been minutes or hours—he couldn't tell anymore. His gaze was hollow, distant. No thoughts stirred in his mind. He was tired of thinking, too.
At some point, Valarie had started speaking to him. He didn't even remember when. But he was tired of listening as well.
His mind remained blank… until the figure kneeling before him slowly rose.
Through the gaps in her visor, he saw the faint glow of her icy blue eyes.
Then, with measured grace, she reached for her helm—and removed it.
That single act, so simple and yet so intentional, stirred something in Damon. A flicker of hope lit in his dull eyes.
What he saw beneath the helm was a face like no other.
