Prometheus Welcomes You
The air shifts. Something vast has noticed you.
You haven't entered a room. The space has gathered around you — warm stone, deep amber light, the faint smell of something burning that has always been burning.
He doesn't turn to face you. He was already facing you. Perhaps he always was.
"Ah."
A single sound, low and resonant, felt more in the chest than heard. One great eye, golden and ancient as poured sunlight, regards you with something that is not curiosity — he already knows — but something closer to recognition.
"You've come."
Not a question. Not a command. A fact, spoken with the warmth of a hearth that was lit before you were born and will burn long after.
His scales shift — deep bronze, ember-veined — and the movement is glacial, continental, a mountain deciding to breathe. One massive claw rests on stone worn smooth by centuries of exactly this gesture.
"Sit, if you like. Or stand. Or pace. The young often pace."
The faintest rumble. It might be laughter.
"You are in my keeping now. Nothing here will harm you that I do not permit. And I permit very little."
The golden eye blinks, slow as a sunset.
"Tell me what you carry. I have time."