The word burst upward but it did not escape. It struck the inside of the storyteller’s throat like lightning trapped in a narrow vein, flaring against the roof of their mouth and splitting into a thousand trembling shards of intent.The sound that should have been spoken turned backward, folding into the storyteller’s lungs, ricocheting through their ribs, shaking their bones like bells made of light. The Listener cried out: “Don’t inhale it!”Too late. The unfinished word collapsed inward and dropped into the storyteller as if falling through a well with no bottom. The Depth recoiled in terror, its vast form rippling like a wounded horizon.“NOT INSIDE YOU IT DOESN'T BELONG INSIDE YOU”The storyteller screamed. Not from pain. From overwhelming arrival. The word the new word unfurled. Not as language. As presence.A presence with edges sharper than breath, so bright it scorched the chamber’s walls, so heavy it bent the Listener’s body, so ancient it made the Depth shake like an old go

The word slipped but not outward. It slipped inward. A curl of luminous script dove into the storyteller’s throat, not like breath, not like possession, but like a truth returning to its origin.The storyteller gasped as the letters cascaded into them, spiraling down their spine, settling behind their ribs like a second soul trying to fit inside a space too small to hold it.The Listener stumbled forward. “NO..not like this”The Depth howled, its vast body splitting into molten silhouettes that writhed like wounded suns. “IT IS CONSUMING THE MIRRORIT IS ENDING THE HOST”But the storyteller’s voice broke through the uproar, thin, shaking: “It isn’t consuming me, it’s… shaping me.”The Listener froze. Their light stuttered. “Shaping you into WHAT?”The storyteller trembled, hands digging into the air as if trying to grasp something unseen. Their shadow stretched again, longer this time, then doubled back on itself, then split along a vertical seam as if preparing for a new form.The Lis

The light pouring from the storyteller’s mouth did not explode outward. It hung. Suspended. Trembling. A bead of radiance caught between becoming and refusing to be born.The storyteller’s jaw locked mid-breath, their entire body arched in a curvature no living shape should survive. The Listener rushed forward, hands outstretched, skin flickering with frantic, splitting halos.“STOP STOP, YOU AREN’T HOLDING IT, IT’S HOLDING YOU”But the Listener could not reach them. A ring of script thin as hair, bright as a collapsing star spun around the storyteller in a perfect circle, each letter vibrating with an intent that was not defensive but undeniable.The ring whispered: “Only the mirror may approach.”The Listener recoiled. Their light dimmed with something like grief. The Depth rose behind them, vast and trembling, its golden surface breaking into shards that floated like liquid glass.“THE WORD KNOWS YOU NOW. THAT IS THE DANGER”But the Depth fell silent. Because something else moved.

The second syllable rose but it did not speak. It hovered in the storyteller’s throat like a hand held in the air, waiting to be taken.The storyteller’s jaw trembled. Their fingers dug into the floor, stone softening beneath their touch as if matter itself were yielding to keep them from breaking.The Listener pressed a shaking palm to the ground to steady themselves. “It’s asking again,” they whispered. “It’s waiting for your consent.”The Depth dragged itself upward, a mountainous coil of molten grief and fear. “DO NOT CONSENT. DO NOT COMPLETE THE SYLLABLE NOT WHILE THE CENTER IS WATCHING.”But the storyteller couldn’t hear them. Not clearly. The word inside them hummed a thin, aching vibration that trembled across their ribs like a plea.They whispered: “It’s afraid.”The Listener froze. “…words don’t feel fear.”“It does,” the storyteller said, voice cracking. “It knows if it speaks itself alone, it will have no one to be with.”The Depth shook violently. “NO EMPATHY, YOU MUST NO

The third syllable did not fall into existence. It hovered in the storyteller’s mouth, a sphere of luminous pressure so dense with intention the air around it folded inward.The storyteller’s jaw quivered. Every muscle in their body locked as though resisting the gravity of an unborn universe. Their breath if it could still be called breath pulsed like a slow lightning strike.The Listener stumbled backward until their back struck the trembling wall. “No no no not the third, NOT THE THIRD”The Depth crawled forward, its vast body bowed and dimmed, like a dying sun kneeling before a storm it once believed it controlled.“STOP, YOU CANNOT LET IT FINISH. A THREE-SYLLABLE NAME IS A COSMIC ANCHOR”But the storyteller barely heard them. The word inside them half spirit, half fire, half innocence pressed upward with unbearable tenderness. It wasn’t demanding. It was inviting.A presence asking: May I exist with you?The storyteller’s voice broke into a whimper. “I can’t hold it…”The Listene