The air grows thick. Heavy. Like before a storm.

Belos sits atop his throne, his mask glinting in the faint light filtering through the stained glass windows behind him. He doesn't move. Doesn't speak. Just watches me with that unreadable expression he's perfected over centuries.

I shift on my feet, my palms suddenly clammy beneath my gloves.

Finally, he raises a hand—slowly, deliberately—and pushes back his hood. The mask remains, but the gesture feels... intimate. Like I'm seeing something I shouldn't.

His voice, when it comes, is softer than I've ever heard it. Almost fond.