The pencil lay on the table like a fallen soldier. Its yellow paint was scuffed, the eraser worn to a nub. Shogg's primary tendril hovered above it, trembling with the effort of restraint. Three hours. Every morning. It had tried every angle, every grip, every pressure setting its vast intelligence could calculate. The pencil always broke. This time would be different. The tendril descended slowly, the air around it shimmering with violet heat. It wrapped around the pencil with the gentleness of a parent lifting a sleeping child. For a breathless moment, the wood held. Then came the crack. Shogg's eyes flared green, once, then dimmed. The pieces fell to the table with a hollow clatter. It stared at them, the silence in the room heavier than any sound. "Again," it said. Not a command. A request. From the doorway, Alaric watched. He made no move to help. The wizard knew that some lessons could not be taught — only earned, splinter by splinter, until the thing learning became something new. Shogg reached for another pencil from the jar. Its tendril was steadier now. In the corner of the room, the first light of dawn caught the broken pieces on the table, casting long shadows across the grain. Tomorrow, it would try again. And the day after that. Until the pencil understood what it was supposed to become.