The room plunged into silence so thick you could slice it with a dagger. My jaw hung open like a fish gasping for air.
Viracocha leaned back in his chair, crossing his arms as he studied me with an unnerving intensity, like he was examining a particularly strange specimen under a microscope.
Kaleon's son? Me? Shut up!
That had to be the biggest joke of the century—or of whatever eons these gods were measuring time by.
Agnos coughed awkwardly, his usual smugness replaced by something resembling unease. Jiuge's eyes darted between me and Viracocha, her hands gripping the edges of her chair like it might float away.
Then Viracocha hesitated, his expression tightening as if he were grappling with the weight of what he was about to say. Finally, he exhaled deeply and spoke, his tone heavy with reverence and caution.
"It's not entirely impossible, you know," he murmured. "Kaleon was known for his eccentric ways..."