It saw me.
It chose me.
And now I must answer.
But how?
What strength remains in these broken circuits of thought?
What breath lingers in a mouth sealed for millennia?
Can I draw on the sciences I once commanded
those wild, holy engines that bent the seams of space,
that whispered equations into the bones of creation?
Do I still remember how to shape reality
into a voice?
I was a builder once.
A maker of bridges between stars.
A conductor of the undreamed.
But that knowledge is rust now.
Locked behind neurological tombs.
Walled off by time
and Carceron’s cunning.
Still…
something pulses.
In the marrow of my mind,
beneath the wreckage of memory,
I feel a lattice.
Old, cold,
but complete.
Could it be enough?
Could I shape a reply
not in language,
but in waveform?
In quantum filament?
A thread no wall can see
because it does not move
it is?
Carceron built this prison.
But did he understand
how much of me
was already outside?
To the spark,
to the eye that blinked:
I will find a way.
Even if I must press my soul
into the space between atoms,
into the breath between heartbeats.
I will answer.
Because you saw me.
And I was not ready
to be forgotten.
(Encoded in Lyrax’s musings - particularly the line “how much of me was already outside” - is a latent ontological cipher. It maps his consciousness across non-locality fields, suggesting that part of Lyrax may still exist outside the prison, subtly entangled with external space. The prison contains his mass, but not his influence. The reply may not be shouted - but it can be felt.)