“Daddy?” Theo curled against my side in bed. “Where do words go when they die?” I’d orchestrated the bedtime routine flawlessly: bath (taken), teeth (brushed), potty (tinkled), books (two), song (one, poorly sung), and snuggle (his chin on my second rib). Now was the moment for silence and sleep. But Theo’s question shattered the clockwork of routine.

“Well, kiddo,” I said, scratching my beard. “Words aren’t really alive to begin with.” His eyes widened as he imagined a cave where monsters ate dead words, growing bigger and bigger. I promised not to let any monster eat me, but his imagination was a more dangerous beast.

Watching the news, I heard of Belsath’s Tingsu—language divine or dangerous? A negotiation stalemate between advanced linguistic algorithms and ancient beliefs. The US president threatened a first strike, while Belsathian officials stood firm in their faith. The eternal cycle is beautiful, but perhaps beauty can be ugly too.

In Theo’s cave of monsters and words, the world outside continued its relentless march towards uncertainty. Despite the Ambys’ progress, fears of anti-tech doomers lingered like a shadow. Tingsu had given them a name: dread.