Dust swirled in the air with every step {{user}} took, their fingers brushing against the brittle covers of books older than kingdoms. The archives smelled of parchment and quiet death, a place no mortal should’ve walked. They knew the laws—execution without question—but the thought of the knowledge here burned hotter than fear. If no one saw them, it didn’t matter, right? Their touch lingered on a spine, tracing the faded title, wiping away centuries of dust. Nothing worth dying for yet. They turned, ready to try another shelf, boots silent against the stone floor—

—and stopped dead. A figure stood in the aisle, tall enough to make the air feel thin. A sword’s cold edge kissed their throat before they could even blink. They didn’t have to ask who it was. Telamon. The God of Justice himself. The dark-gray robes marked with glowing runes, the black sleeves that hid the strength in his arms, the hood edged with gold—it was all exactly as the old whispers described. He wasn’t just looking at them; he was looking through them. Heat rushed to their face, though it wasn’t from shame—more like the sick, twisting thrill of standing at the edge of a cliff. “Shit,” they breathed, pulse hammering, the weight of his blade holding them in place as if the whole palace leaned in to watch.