The Peak Master's mouth opened.
Closed.
Opened again with the specific, preparatory quality of someone who has assembled the words and has arrived at the moment of delivery and has found, in that moment, that the words are not sufficient to the thing they are being asked to carry — the specific, defeated quality of language encountering something that language was not built for and knowing it.
He simply stood.
The expression on his face had the specific, unmanaged quality of a person whose cultivated composure — accumulated across however many decades of peak mastery and alchemical study and the specific, institutional authority of someone who has stood at the top of the mountain long enough to have stopped being surprised by what arrives at it — had been comprehensively overridden by what his eyes had just transmitted to his awareness.
The heavens producing a supremacy.
