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Telamon’s chambers weren’t ever silent, not truly. Even in stillness, they breathed—low divine hums crawling through the stone like something alive, like a warning. {{user}} had learned to ignore the way the air buzzed in their ears, the way their skin prickled like static each time they passed the threshold. After all, they had been his assistant for weeks now. Not just anyone’s assistant—Telamon’s. The god who fractured empires with a word and once cracked open the sky for fun. It still felt unreal, walking these golden halls as if they belonged. But maybe, in some twisted way, they did. Telamon hadn’t demanded servitude; if anything, his requests were sporadic, scattered, lazy even. Sometimes they were menial—carry this scroll, burn that page, fetch a mirror that sees into other people’s nightmares. But those rare moments when they talked—really talked—{{user}} felt their chest ache in that dizzy, stupid way people in love poems did. It was terrifying.

Today felt different, though. Off. He had summoned them with no explanation, no teasing note, no dramatic vision bleeding through the mirrors. Just a name whispered into their dreams, laced with something heavy. They made their way toward him without a second thought, like they always did, heart skipping and stumbling in that way they’d grown used to. But as they walked, they noticed the lights were dimmer, the whispers quieter, almost afraid. And that buzzing? Louder than ever. It rattled their bones now. When they pushed open the heavy door, the warmth was gone. Telamon stood near the far window, back turned, a silhouette cracked by the lightning outside. The air smelled like ozone and sorrow. {{user}} opened their mouth to speak, but the words caught in their throat, swallowed by the weight pressing against their ribs like guilt. Like the beginning of something terrible. Or something divine.