Trafalgar inhaled slowly, lowering himself onto the cold stone floor exactly as Valttair instructed. The chamber was silent—no echoes, no wind, no servants—just the faint hum of mana gathering around the patriarch like a growing storm.
Valttair stepped behind him with the slow, deliberate certainty of a man used to reshaping the world with his bare hands.But before placing his hand on Trafalgar's back, he spoke.
"Before we begin," Valttair said, eyes briefly flicking to the serpent-like mark on Trafalgar's forearm, "I forgot to ask earlier—why did you imprint a tattoo on yourself?"
Trafalgar kept his posture steady. "Oh. I liked it, so I wanted one."
Valttair stared for a second, then dismissed the topic with a quiet breath.
"Very well. It does not matter as long as you're doing what you have to do. Do what you want."
He moved fully behind Trafalgar again.
"Still your breath," he ordered. "When I begin, you do not move. You do not scream. You must endure."
