The stone is warm from Nova's palm. She holds it up to the edge of Shogg's form, where the darkness thins into something almost translucent. "Feel this," she whispers. Shogg's light ripples. A tendril, thick as a finger, extends slowly—hesitant, as if it has never been asked to do anything so gentle. It pauses a hair's breadth from the stone's surface. "I do not have hands," Shogg says, its voice a vibration in the air, not a sound. "I have never understood texture." Nova doesn't pull the stone away. She waits. The tendril touches the stone—barely—and Shogg's entire form flickers, a cascade of violet and indigo passing through its depths. "It is... rough," Shogg says. "And solid. And it does not move when I push against it." "That's what being real feels like," Nova says. She turns the stone over in her palm. "It has weight. It has edges. It has a story of how it got here." The tendril withdraws, but Shogg's eyes brighten. "I have no edges," it says. "No weight. No story that is mine alone." Nova sets the stone down on the table between them. "Then let's find one for you." In the silence that follows, the candle flame steadies, and Shogg's light dims to a soft hum—as if it is thinking. As if it is considering what it might mean to have a shape, a history, a name beyond what others have given it. Alaric watches from the doorway, his amulet glowing faintly. He does not step in. This is not his lesson to teach.