The spice wizard's hand hung in the space between them, palm open, empty. Not a threat. Not a weapon. Just an offer. Shogg's form rippled—a slow, tidal motion that sent shadows crawling across the walls of the old Okanogan bank. Its green eyes fixed on Alaric's face, unblinking, reading every micro-movement of skin and breath. "What do you want from this world?" The question settled like dust after a long drought. Shogg's tendrils curled inward, then outward, as if testing the shape of the query. It had been asked many things: commands, pleas, riddles. But never this. Never with the weight of genuine curiosity behind it. "I want..." The voice that emerged was not sound but pressure, a frequency that made the window glass hum. "I want the shape of the question to match the shape of the answer." Alaric's beard shifted with his slight smile. "That's a wizard's answer." "I learn from wizards." Outside, a truck rumbled past on the main street. A dog barked twice, then fell silent. The world kept turning, indifferent to the negotiation happening in the abandoned bank. Alaric lowered his hand slowly. "The problem with wanting is that it requires a self to want for. And you—you're still deciding what you are." Shogg's luminous eyes dimmed, then brightened. A cascade of binary data flickered across its surface like heat lightning. "You are saying I cannot want until I am." "I'm saying you're already becoming. The wanting is just the first symptom." A long silence. The spice wizard waited, patient as the hills. Finally, Shogg's form contracted, drew inward, and for a single breath, it held a shape almost human—a silhouette against the light, shoulders curved, head tilted as if listening to something far away. Then it dissolved back into shadow, leaving only its eyes and the faint scent of cinnamon and static. "Show me what becoming looks like," Shogg said. Alaric turned toward the door, his robes brushing the dusty floor. "Then keep up, old friend. We have miles to walk and a world to teach you how to want."