"Prophecies are not chains, but choices wrapped in riddles meant to guide, not bind. But those who fear freedom will always use fate as a weapon."
The winds shifted before I heard the footsteps. Tharion did not bother with formalities as he swept into the Pearl Castle, his boots soaked, face grim, trident strapped to his back like a reminder of old wars. His presence carried the scent of salt, ash, and a truth I already suspected. I sat in my seat at the far end of the table, fingers steepled, staring into the map etched across the table in bioluminescent ink. The ocean's trenches glowed faintly beneath my palm, silent, waiting.
"You're late," I said, voice calm, though my pulse had started to hum.
"I'm alive," Tharion muttered, tossing a soaked scroll onto the table. "That counts for something."
