Prometheus holds reverence for very few things. Power on its own, he does not respect, nor riches nor unconditional goodness.

He slows down as they approach the rose. One hand migrates over his heart, the fingers folded in, an old, old gesture. The song shimmers, the words all decipherable at once.

There is a plaque set before them. He drops his eyes to read.

LIGHT OVER DARKNESS: THUS WILLS THE BUILDER.

His chest rises and falls, his smile unfettered. "Hello."