The photograph should have been blurry.
Instead, it was the sharpest thing I'd seen all day.
Damien had zoomed in, and the pixels, usually blocky and deceptive, had resolved into a sharpness that felt like an intrusion. I didn't want to look, but my eyes were anchored to the device. The figure in the Hall of Names hadn't just appeared; he had occupied the space.
"Look at the hands," Damien said. His voice was a flat, low-frequency hum, devoid of his usual tactical rhythm.
I leaned in. The figure was standing between two of the ancient, carved pillars. His hands were folded calmly in front of him, fingers interlocked with a stillness that suggested he had been holding that pose for hours, perhaps years. His boots—tactical, perfectly polished, catching a glint of light that shouldn't hav
