The dim light inside the derelict auditorium flickered erratically as the single crystal chandelier swayed from the ceiling, caught in a cold draught whistling through the broken rafters above. Zeven stood frozen in the center aisle, the dust particles dancing like ghosts around his massive frame while his eyes remained locked onto the young man standing on the elevated stage. The silence between them was thick, heavy with the weight of unremembered history and the unmistakable scent of old velvet, stagnant rainwater, and rusted iron. Down the length of the dark, matte-black barrel of the compact rifle, Rey eyes remained completely vacant, devoid of any warmth or familial recognition.
"Put the weapon down, Rey, please, you do not know what you are doing," Zeven said, his voice dropping in
