The Silent Brothers flanked him, their hooded forms motionless as statues. One raised a pale hand, palm open. Waiting.

Somewhere behind him, a woman whispered. A man shushed her sharply. The silence that followed was worse than the words.

Y/n's reflection rippled in the liquid gold. Not his face as he knew it — younger, softer, before the training and the blades. It stared back at him like a stranger.

A voice, low and familiar, cut through the stillness.