[ Fate line. Life line. Sun line. In the circus, one of his aunties had practiced palmistry. He remembers little and less of the mechanics of reading fate in the lines pressed to hands, but he recalls quite clearly how fairgoers, she'd said, preferred the closeness of contact to cards or divination done with crystal spheres. There was a thrill in the idea that hidden truth was etched to skin, like freckles, like scars, the means to read it had been lost to all but a few.

Emet-Selch's fingers dip into the divots that hold no secrets of fate. There is nothing there to read, Viktor knows, no meaning to be found as Hades traces the curve of his heart line, but he still must fight the urge to shiver at the light brush of contact. He bends his knuckles up, letting his own fingertips meet Hades's palm, and exhales a soft huff of laughter, little more than air through the nose. ]

S-someone must brag about you from time to time, if you will not do so for yourself. [ His head bobbles up and down, quiet agreement. ] You've much on your plate. Take all the time you need to prepare. I- I appreciate this.

[ But Emet-Selch then answers his question with command. Viktor's ears ease back, expression stilling. He stares at their hands - an easy, uncomplicated point of focus. This is necessity. Work that needs must be done if they are to take their fight to the far reaches of the void, to mitigate the damage done to their star. Other emotions need not play into it. ]

I won't. [ Despite his best efforts, trying to sound neutral, a hint of strain frays the edges of his words. Foolishness. ] I imagine the spell will take most of my attention, and even if it did not- [ His gaze flicks up, a stolen glance at Emet-Selch's face. ] -I would not pry.