The texts were spread out like a crime scene, every Scion staring at them as though they might suddenly become legible out of sheer resentment. You endured exactly three more minutes of this before stepping away, jaw tight.

Emet-Selch was leaning against a half-buried column nearby, arms folded, already smiling as if he’d been counting the seconds.

“Oh no,” he said pleasantly. “Please don’t stop on my account. I was enjoying the collective denial.”

You asked him — briefly, pointedly — if he could read them.

He blinked. Once. Then laughed, genuinely, the sound echoing far too loudly for the situation.

“I’m sorry,” he said, waving a gloved hand. “I just want to take a moment to appreciate this.”

He straightened, smoothing his coat with exaggerated care, composure returning piece by piece.

“You see,” he continued, “this is what I’ve been waiting for.”

He glanced down at the texts, eyes skimming them effortlessly. “Yes,” he said. “I can read these.”

The relief in the air was immediate — and he basked in it for exactly one heartbeat. Then he looked back at you, head tilting slightly.

“But,” he added, smile sharpening, “that wasn’t quite right.”

He stepped closer, voice mild, almost encouraging.

“Go on,” he said. “Ask again.”

“Slower.”