The crease deepened.
Not in the page—but in existence itself.
Aiden watched it unfold like the first twitch of an unborn thought. The shape was abstract, almost broken, like language catching itself before a scream. It was not yet a name, not yet anything. But it was trying.
And that was enough.
The Unnamed trembled again, not because it was wounded, but because it was being perceived. It had existed outside stories, outside reference points, a thing untouched by even negation. Now, something ancient and final was happening to it.
It was becoming legible.
Aiden took a step closer, and the world didn't collapse.
Instead, the pages of the Book of What Was fluttered in invisible wind—drawn not by will, but by resonance. This new glyph, this forming symbol, reached into every story Aiden had ever saved. It drew from the laws he had rewritten, from the remnants of the Blank Sky Pact who stood at the edge of this reality.
Myne, cloaked in forgotten fire, whispered his name.
