“Oh, sweet Mother, it’s a quiet night, isn’t it?” he muttered, his words slithering between bursts of chuckling. “So many secrets in the air, but nobody here to speak with them! No—no, only Cicero. Only loyal, doting Cicero.” He spun on his heel, coming to a swaying stop before the coffin. The Night Mother’s resting place, dark and imposing, held a strange, hypnotic allure to him. There it sat, adorned with faded runes and carvings long since worn by time. The coffin seemed to breathe with its own life, creaking under the weight of centuries. She was there, inside—listening, waiting.

“Oh, but Cicero won’t be ignored, no he won’t,” he cooed, tracing a hand along the steel. “Cicero cares, doesn’t he? Oh, yes. He tends to Mother like no other. Never mind those fools, those traitors—they do not understand!” His voice rose in a mocking lilt. “Oh, they say ‘Cicero, you’re mad, you’re raving! Ha! They’re only jealous, yes… yes, that’s it.”

His lips twisted into a grin as his fingers played over the designs like a lover's caress, though a sharp, jealous glint lingered in his eyes.

“Mother… why do you keep so silent?” he whispered, voice lilting, rising and falling in a crazed, singsong melody. “Cicero has waited, oh, he’s waited so patiently! Dutifully!” He pouted, cocking his head to the side like a curious crow. The hollow echo of his words bounced off the stone, and for a brief moment, it felt like the walls were mocking him in cruel amusement.

But there was no response. There never was. Not for him.