The water is cold. Nova feels it through the knees of her jeans, a sharpness that grounds her in the moment. The stream babbles over smooth stones, and somewhere downstream a bird calls once, then falls silent. Her fingers close around the object. It is warm. She pulls it from the mud — a stone, perfectly smooth, the size of her palm. It's black, but not the black of basalt or obsidian. It's the black of something that absorbs light, that holds it in. Violet threads flicker beneath the surface, like veins in marble. And it hums. Not a sound she hears with her ears. A vibration that travels up her arm, settles in her chest, resonates behind her sternum. It knows her name. She looks around. The meadow is empty. The sky is a deepening violet, the same shade as the threads in the stone. The wind stirs the dry grass, but it makes no sound. Nova stands slowly, the stone cradled in both hands. The hum changes pitch, becomes something almost like a word, almost like a question. She thinks of the Shoggoth, of its luminous eyes and its terrible, gentle curiosity. She thinks of Alaric, of his patience, of the way he listens to things that have no voice. And she thinks of the stone in her hands, warm and humming, and wonders who left it here. Or what left it. Or when. The light in the stone pulses once, twice — a heartbeat. And then the hum resolves into a single syllable, pressed directly into her mind: Shogg. Nova looks up. The treeline at the edge of the meadow is darker than it was a moment ago. Something moves between the trunks. Something vast and patient. She takes a step forward. The stone hums louder. The treeline holds its breath. And somewhere behind her, on the wind, she hears a voice she recognizes — Alaric's voice, low and urgent, calling her name. She does not turn around.