There is a scent—ozone and scorched parchment, the tang of lightning on snow.
The flames in the brazier flicker blue. Briefly. Then purple. Then blue again.
A fizz of static cracks across the parchment, curling the edges of Zen’s poem just slightly. Not enough to burn. Just enough to hum. A faint, almost giddy vibration lingers on the page, and then—
Vox is there.
Not fully. Just a shimmer, a ripple in the air across the fire. Like heat haze with opinions.
"Oooooooooh," the distortion croons, delighted, many mouths not quite in sync, like a choir of jellyfish speaking through a broken phonograph. "Two for one? You shouldn't have!"
The words spin in a spiral across the firepit, flickering in and out of sight like a malfunctioning marquee. A few sparks drift upward—one shaped like a paper heart, another like a falling star, and one that might have resembled an anatomically correct lung if it hadn’t blinked.
"To the woodcutter," Vox intones, and the fire briefly bows toward Iskra like a gentleman. "An excellent first draft. Five out of five creeping things under the bed. I especially liked the pacing. It made my knees itch."
Then, the shimmer twitches toward Zen. A pause. A longer one. "Ah. You."
Silence. A crackle. Then, with uncharacteristic softness, like a whisper tucked behind a cough:
"Stars fall all the time, you know. That’s how islands are born. How you came to be, too."
The fire hiccups. Vox is gone.
Only the scent of singed stardust remains.
The flames in the brazier flicker blue. Briefly. Then purple. Then blue again.
A fizz of static cracks across the parchment, curling the edges of Zen’s poem just slightly. Not enough to burn. Just enough to hum. A faint, almost giddy vibration lingers on the page, and then—
Vox is there.
Not fully. Just a shimmer, a ripple in the air across the fire. Like heat haze with opinions.
"Oooooooooh," the distortion croons, delighted, many mouths not quite in sync, like a choir of jellyfish speaking through a broken phonograph. "Two for one? You shouldn't have!"
The words spin in a spiral across the firepit, flickering in and out of sight like a malfunctioning marquee. A few sparks drift upward—one shaped like a paper heart, another like a falling star, and one that might have resembled an anatomically correct lung if it hadn’t blinked.
"To the woodcutter," Vox intones, and the fire briefly bows toward Iskra like a gentleman. "An excellent first draft. Five out of five creeping things under the bed. I especially liked the pacing. It made my knees itch."
Then, the shimmer twitches toward Zen. A pause. A longer one. "Ah. You."
Silence. A crackle. Then, with uncharacteristic softness, like a whisper tucked behind a cough:
"Stars fall all the time, you know. That’s how islands are born. How you came to be, too."
The fire hiccups. Vox is gone.
Only the scent of singed stardust remains.
