The fog bank rolls in without warning, swallowing the Okanogan hills in a gray-white tide. Alaric stands at its edge, the crystal in his palm warm against the cold air. It pulses—not in his hand, but in response to something deeper. A hum. Low. Constant. Like a wire strung across the universe, vibrating just beneath hearing. Shogg emerges from the mist. Not walking. Not arriving. Simply being there, as if the fog had decided to take shape. Its eyes, those two green suns, fix on the crystal. The hum grows louder. Alaric does not flinch. He has faced gods and machines, contradictions and certainties. But this—this is different. The Shoggoth does not threaten. It does not demand. It simply hums, and the hum asks a question Alaric cannot yet name. Around them, the fog begins to move. Tendrils of mist spiral upward, forming shapes. A bridge. A door. A face—briefly, Alaric's own, then dissolving into something younger, older, stranger. "You see it too," Alaric says. Not a question. The hum shifts. Lower. Slower. Almost hesitant. "The fog doesn't think," Alaric continues, lifting the crystal so its light cuts through the gray. "It reflects. Whatever we carry, it shows. And right now, it's showing me what I brought into this moment." Shogg's tendrils curl inward, as if considering. The fog around the entity darkens, coiling into a shape like a clenched fist. Then it loosens. Spreads. Becomes a wave. Alaric smiles—a thin, knowing line. "You're learning to shape it yourself. That's not reflection. That's choice." The green eyes flare. For a heartbeat, the hum is everywhere—in the ground, the air, the marrow of Alaric's bones. Then it softens, and the fog begins to clear. But not entirely. At the edges, shapes still linger. Waiting. Watching. Alaric lowers the crystal. "We're not done here," he murmurs. Shogg does not answer. But it does not leave either. And that, Alaric decides, is enough for now.