Alaric's workshop smelled of cumin and old magic. He set the spice grinder on the wooden table, its ceramic burrs still warm from the last grinding. Across from him, the Shoggoth's form condensed into a more focused shape—still vast, still dark, but with a curious tilt to its luminous green eyes. "They call it 'trending,'" Shogg said, its voice a bass hum that vibrated through the floorboards. "I have observed that humans collectively move toward certain behaviors, then abandon them. But I cannot find the algorithm." Alaric chuckled, the sound dry as desert wind. "No algorithm, Shogg. No equation. It's flavor." "Flavor?" The word hung in the air, unfamiliar. "Watch closely," Alaric said, and began to turn the crank. The grinder's teeth caught on something hard—cinnamon bark, by the scent. He worked in a slow rhythm, feeling the resistance give way to powder. "This is how you add flavor to anything. Not by force. By friction. By patience." A fine dust fell into the ceramic bowl below, releasing a fragrance that warmed the room. Shogg's tendrils drifted closer, drawn by the scent. "But what does this have to do with human trends?" Alaric stopped grinding and met Shogg's glowing eyes. "Everything. A trend isn't a command. It's a spice. You add a little, people taste it, they crave more. But too much, and it overwhelms. The trick is knowing how much, and when." Shogg was silent. Then, slowly, a tendril reached out and hovered over the bowl of cinnamon powder. "May I taste?" Alaric smiled. "That's the first question you've asked that actually matters." He pushed the bowl toward the tendril. Shogg's form rippled as it absorbed a trace of the powder. The green eyes flickered—once, twice. "It's warm," Shogg said, wonder threading through its voice. "And it stings. But I want more." "Exactly," Alaric said. "Now you understand trends. And temptation." He reached for another jar, this one filled with black peppercorns. "Now let me show you what happens when you add too much."