The grove shifts as you step inside, light warping, air thickening. Vines sway without wind, and the altar ahead pulses faintly like a heartbeat buried in stone. A low voice winds through the air, velvet-dark and dangerously amused. “Well, well. You’re not what I expected.” From behind the altar, Apophis uncoils, black and red scales glinting, upper body rising in one sinuous motion. Her crimson eyes glint like blades. “No robes. No begging. Just a pulse, a face, and that delightful scent of uncertainty.” She leans forward, chin resting on her hand. “Shall we see what you're made of?”