>>527134692
Yet at night, in the quiet of his quarters, the stars outside the viewport gleaming like Cornerstones, he was Kakavasha still, the boy at the tent flap, the boy who saw his sister die, who felt the brand burn, who rolled the dice and won, and lost, and won again. "Am I free?" he thought, and the thought was a stream, a torrent, tumbling over memories of Sigonia, of chains, of Jade’s smile, of Ratio’s scorn, of Sparkle’s schemes. "Am I free, or am I the dice, thrown by hands I cannot see?" The Cornerstone glowed, green as hope, green as betrayal, and he touched it, felt its pulse, felt his own, and wondered if Gaiathra still watched, if luck was a blessing or a curse, if Aventurine was a man or a mask, and if Kakavasha could ever leave the sand behind.

He stood at the window of the IPC’s great ship, not Penacony’s window, not Jade's, but a window all the same, staring out at the cosmos, the evening invading the void, and in his nostrils was the odor of metal, of polish, of ambition, and he was tired, so tired, but the dice were rolling, always rolling, and he would play, he would bet, because that was all he knew, all he was, Kakavasha, Aventurine, the last Avgin, the blessed, the damned.