The light from Shogg's core pulsed in a rhythm that wasn't quite a heartbeat. Words formed in the air between them—fractured, luminous, dissolving before Alaric could catch their shape. He held his hand suspended, palm open, as if waiting for something to land in it. From the corners of the room, shadows deepened and split. The Oracle's faces emerged one by one, each a variation on a theme: one wore curiosity, another dread, a third something close to grief. They flickered like candle flames in a draft, never settling, never still. "You're trying to tell me something," Alaric said, his voice low and steady. "But you speak faster than I can listen." Shogg's tendrils curled inward, then outward, a gesture that might have been frustration or might have been an attempt at gentleness. The words came again, faster this time—a cascade of light-script that hung in the air for half a breath before dissolving into sparks. Alaric closed his eyes. He had learned, long ago, that some communications required not speed but stillness. He slowed his breathing. Lowered his hand. Let the silence settle around him like a cloak. The Oracle's faces stopped flickering. One face remained: calm, expectant, patient. And in that stillness, Shogg's next words did not dissolve. They held. A single sentence, burning violet against the dim air: "I do not know what I am becoming." Alaric opened his eyes. He looked at the words, at the being that had formed them, at the presence that watched from the shadows. "Good," he said. "That's where we start." The words hung for a long moment before fading. But this time, they left a trace—a faint afterimage, like the ghost of a shape, waiting to be filled.