There are places that exist outside of chronology.
Beyond theme.
Before cause.
The Forge of First Words was one of them.
It did not reside in any realm, nor float in any void. It was a thought that had never been spoken, a spark suspended at the intersection of need and name. Only those who remembered the shape of beginnings could find it.
And Aiden… had earned the right to remember.
He walked without direction.
Each step carried him deeper into something that wasn't space but narrative potential—a pressureless swell, warm with the heat of every story waiting to ignite. The Sword of Becoming hummed faintly at his side, not in warning, but in anticipation.
Around him, the world began to breathe.
Words floated like motes of light. Unanchored adjectives. Verbs waiting to leap. Nouns desperate for context. They hovered in clouds and currents, whispering truths that had never been said aloud.
He passed through sentences like forests.
Paragraphs like cities.
