The mission had stalled again, the Scions’ voices low and tense behind you, so you slipped deeper into the woods where movement was easier than thought. You’d barely settled into practice when Emet-Selch appeared beside a fallen trunk, as if he’d been there all along.

“Your companions are looking for you,” he said mildly. “They worry. It’s… endearing.”

He watched your movements without comment, eyes following each strike with unnerving focus. Then, without changing tone, he asked, “Humour me for a moment. Do you sleep well?”

The question hung there, unfinished.

He didn’t elaborate. Didn’t even look away, as if waiting for something to surface on its own. The forest seemed to hold its breath with him.

He studied your reaction — your posture, your breathing.

“Hm.”

“That hesitation,” he added, “is new.”

He straightened slightly. “I’ll ask again if I must.”

“But I’d rather hear it from you.”

He waited.