The Magician smiled faintly. The Trickster smirked with sly satisfaction. The Lover's crimson lips curled into a knowing grin. In perfect, uncanny unison, they bowed their heads.
"My Creator."
The words, soft and synchronized, crawled over my skin like static. Triumph and unease warred inside me. I had named them. I had shaped them. And now I had named myself.
There was no immediate worship, no fanfare—only a small shifting, an acknowledgement of a new fact. By naming, I had both claimed authority and accepted its burden. The title tasted of ash and iron, of thunder and quiet rooms at three in the morning. It was both declaration and contract.
Selene's voice softened then, threaded with a new respect that bordered on caution. "Very well," she said. "Creator."
