The room was sealed by stone and silence.
No windows. No banners. No scent of incense or oil. Only cold air, old stone, and a single source of lamp suspended high above—enough illumination to define edges, angles, and posture, but not enough to soften anything. Shadows clung to the walls like witnesses that had learned long ago not to speak.
At the center stood a circular pedestal of dark granite.
Sylen Silia stood upon it.
She was perfectly still.
She is 13 years old. She has small boobs and round hips.
A black blindfold wrapped around her eyes, not loosely, not ceremonially, but with purpose—stitched leather, fitted to the bridge of her nose and tied behind her head so it could not shift even a finger's width. As she is blind.
Her short white hair framed it sharply, shaved close on one side, longer on the other, falling in clean strands that brushed her cheek. Her face was calm to the point of severity, lips relaxed, jaw neither clenched nor slack.
She breathed evenly.
