Theron closed his eyes.
Every time. It was constant, again and again.
A relentless attack on his psyche, on his heart. It was never just a blade, it was never just physical pain, it was never just a war of intellect.
They knew they couldn't get him like that. He had simply never lost.
So instead, they took this route—the route they thought they could poke and prod at him with, the path they felt he was the most vulnerable in.
Theron's body relaxed, his breathing becoming steady, the rainfall from above nourishing him in silence. He didn't bother to respond to Patriarch Gian's words.
However, Gian didn't seem to mind. He just chuckled, looking over toward the old assassin.
"Old friend, it really is nice to see you. Any guesses at how long this will take?"
The old assassin gave Gian a look, but he too didn't say anything.
