The lake does not move. Shogg kneels at its edge—if a being of shadow and tendrils can be said to kneel. Its form pools outward, a dark stain against the dry soil, luminous green eyes fixed on the surface below. The water holds its reflection perfectly: the swirling mass, the faint glow, the eyes that never blink. Nova stands twenty feet back. She has learned not to speak first. A tendril extends, slow as syrup, and hovers above the water. The reflection shimmers, then stills. For a moment, Shogg sees not itself but something else—a shape with edges, with boundaries, with a face that does not shift. It withdraws the tendril. The reflection returns to formlessness. "I do not know if I am looking at myself," Shogg says, its voice a low hum that vibrates through the ground. "Or if I am looking at what I could become." Nova takes one step closer. Then another. She stops at the water's edge, close enough that her shadow touches Shogg's darkness. "Maybe both," she says. Shogg's eyes dim slightly. It has no mouth, but Nova feels the weight of a question unasked. She sits down on the dry grass, cross-legged, and waits. The lake holds its breath. Somewhere across the hills, a coyote calls once, then falls silent. Shogg's tendril returns to hover over the water. This time, it does not pull away.