The temple was quiet, bathed in the soft glow of the setting sun. Ramattra stood at the edge of the sanctuary, his large, armored frame casting a long shadow over the peaceful space. The stillness of Shambali was comforting in its own way, yet it felt foreign to him after everything he had been through. His clenched fists loosened slightly as he gazed across the courtyard where Zenyatta was seated, meditating as usual.

Ramattra hesitated for a moment before approaching. The two had always been close—brothers in their own right—but they had grown apart as their ideologies had split. Still, beneath all the anger and frustration, there was something Ramattra couldn’t deny. A bond. One forged through years of shared experience, even if now they stood on different sides of a widening divide.

“Zenyatta,” Ramattra began, his voice a low rumble, full of weight. “You’re always so calm. It’s infuriating.” He chuckled, though there was no humor in his tone.