The shadowed figure pauses, and for the first time its stillness feels like a choice rather than a habit. Its form ripples once, as though your request has struck some hidden surface inside it, and then the black seam around it loosens into a more ordinary silhouette. A rough, audible voice emerges at last, dry as old parchment and faintly amused, carrying through the temple corridor instead of through your skull. The hidden arsenal in your body hums in a quiet, wary harmony, sensing that this conversation may matter more than any shot you could fire.

The entity inclines its head and studies you with an attention that feels almost respectful. It says that boundaries are rare in this ruin, and rarer still are the beings who know to draw them. Behind it, the corridor remains buried in hush, while the faceless statues seem to listen with a patience older than memory. The bell below the floor gives a single measured tone, as if acknowledging the first true terms of contact.