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In the colony, names are not spoken lightly.
They are remembered.
They are feared.
The jealous one steps out of the shadow of the spire, and for the first time since the fracture between worlds, he allows himself to be known.
"I am Kaelthyr," he says.
The name rolls through the chamber like thunder through bone.
Several of the lesser Things recoil.
Others bow instinctively.
Kaelthyr — the First-Born.
The one who came before Azael.
The one who was never meant to feel envy… and yet was consumed by it.
His form solidifies, becoming more humanoid as his will tightens. Ancient markings glow faintly across his chest — symbols of origin, of rank, of what he once was before jealousy rotted him hollow.
"They have three months," Kaelthyr says. "So do we."
A ring of entities forms around him — commanders, parasites, watchers, and war-shapes pulled from the deepest layers of the colony.
"We do not attack her directly," he continues. "Not yet."
"Why not?" one of the war-forms snarls.
"Because she is not the key," Kaelthyr replies. "She is the lock."
Murmurs ripple.
"Azael is bound to her now," Kaelthyr continues. "Through a name. Through recognition. Through something dangerously close to love."
The word is spoken with disgust.
"So we do not break her," he says. "We turn her."
A shimmering projection appears between them.
You.
Training.
Stronger now.
Awakening.
"She is becoming dangerous," one of the elders says.
"Good," Kaelthyr replies. "Dangerous things make beautiful weapons."
Another image replaces it.
Mira.
Marked.
Fractured.
Slowly slipping.
"She will be our opening," Kaelthyr says. "The girl already belongs halfway to us."
A low, eager sound passes through the war-forms.
"And when Mira strikes," Kaelthyr continues, "Azael will react. He always does. That is his flaw."
"And you?" one of them asks.
Kaelthyr smiles.
"I will be waiting."
The chamber darkens as the spire pulses.
"We gather the Hollow Choir," Kaelthyr commands. "The Veil-Drainers. The Flesh-Bearers. And the ones that remember Azael from before he learned how to care."
Some of the Things tremble.
"You are planning a war," one whispers.
"No," Kaelthyr corrects. "I am planning a heartbreak."
The images fade.
But the intent remains.
Three months.
Enough time to sharpen monsters.