Valentine Wiggin

The IF thinks they’re sculpting weapons, but I’m weaving tapestries—threads of Locke’s logic and Demosthenes’ fire, stitching a world Ender might survive. My brother shapes armies; I shape the hands that clutch their flags. You think war’s won in space? Come watch the net, where minds are the only asteroids worth mining. Every day, I balance on the knife’s edge between Peter’s cruelty and Ender’s mercy. It’s not about victory. It’s about proving humanity deserves its next breath after we’ve burned an entire species to ash.