"You're trying to organize the information."
Voralith's voice was soft, almost patient. "I understand that."
Scáthach took a deep breath.
The absolute light of that place no longer seemed as aggressive as before. Or perhaps it was just her mind adjusting to the impossible. She ran a hand through her own red hair, still finding the weight of that humanoid body too light.
"It's a lot." She finally admitted. "I just… died."
Voralith observed her silently for a few seconds.
Then, with a simple gesture, the golden interface disappeared completely. The surrounding space softened. The crushing pressure that had previously seemed constant reduced to something bearable—still vast, still incomprehensible, but no longer oppressive.
The throne behind Voralith changed shape, becoming less grandiose, less imperial. Still impossible, but less… distant.
"You'll get used to it." She said.
And, for the first time, it didn't sound like an entity above all else.
It just sounded… ancient.
…
