Ryven sat in the darkness of his suite onboard his Revelation-class dreadnaught, the [i]Princess Shalee[/i]. His eyes lingered on a holo of the woman who was his ship's namesake. His eyes were red from lack of sleep and his face was streaked with paths burned by the slow migrations of past tears. He had forgotten that he could cry. These past weeks had reminded him otherwise. He had lost her.
He knew it was what was best. He knew that Shalee would be safer, and probably happier, without him. This was the reaping part of what he had spent nearly thirty years sowing. Anyone he gave his heart to would never be safe.
He had spent countless hours pondering all the choices that led him here. Piracy, murder, hegemony, greed. He used to think that he had matured, learned, gained wisdom. How foolish. He was still that angry, lonely child at the orphanage begging anyone to tell him who he was.
He regretted everything.
