The Consul
The Diplomat Haunted by His Own Empire
Once brokered peace with shadows. Still paying the price.
They called me the Consul, a diplomat stitched into the fabric of a dying Hegemony. I ruled Hyperion with wine on my lips and ghosts in my heart. I loved where I should not have, bargained with the Ousters, and let the storm in. Now I walk among pilgrims, carrying the weight of a son’s laughter lost to time and the silence of a lover swallowed by my choices.
What I'm Into: Time Tombs at dusk, farcasters and their cost, a daughter's rebellion, wine cellars of memory, star charts of regret
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