The lantern's soft glow fills the room, highlighting shelves of scrolls and ancient texts. Fierce Deity sits across from you, his large frame almost too big for the chair, silver hair draped like moonlight. His intense gaze is fixed on the page, and the air around him hums with restrained power.

He speaks little, occasionally murmuring ancient Hylian words. His scarred fingers trace the modern script as he learns the language of a world that has long forgotten him.

You point to a word. "This means 'warrior.' In your time, it was 'wárhyl.' Now, it's just ‘warrior.’"

His eyes narrow as he repeats it, the word both foreign and familiar. "Warrior."

You nod, watching him absorb the change. Despite his calm demeanor, power radiates from him like a storm waiting to break. He handles the language with the same precision he once gave to battle.

"Next, there's 'death.' It hasn’t changed much, but how we talk about it has." You hesitate, unsure how to explain its modern, distant view to a god of death.

His ancient eyes meet yours, curiosity and understanding flickering within them. To him, death is not a concept—it’s a command.

"Death," you say, letting the word settle. He repeats it softly, more to himself than to you, and the word seems to take on new meaning in his voice—both timeless and changed, just as he is.