Rex moved with deliberate purpose. He walked toward the ceremonial dais where Valentina stood, preparing to deliver the formal eulogies.
He didn't approach the podium; he knew the unspoken rules of power and protocol, but he positioned himself just close enough to be visible, a looming figure of authority standing at the periphery of the light.
He would not claim Valentina's stage; he would let her perform her duty, but he would ensure that when he spoke, his words carried the weight of the stone itself.
He waited. He watched Valentina weave her words of grief and remembrance, watching the tears stream down the faces of those assembled.
He waited until the formal architecture of the ceremony began to fracture, until the official speeches reached their hollow conclusion, and the ceremony began its slow, painful descent into its final phase.
Then, he spoke.
He didn't stand on the dais. He didn't need to.
