And the higher entities wept.

She whispered it.

Silence. The crack in the sky trembled.

In her pocket, a pebble that had been dead for eons began to grow a single, silver root.

"We cannot," the Loom translated, vibrating her teeth. "We have never been small."

The entities recoiled. The sky-skin tried to heal. But Amirah grabbed the edge of the crack and pulled it wider.

"Look," she commanded. "Look at a mortal who loves you anyway. Not because you're powerful. Because you're lonely. I can feel it—the silence you live in. No one to argue with. No one to surprise you. You're not gods. You're prisoners."

"Remember that you were once small," she said. "Remember fear. Remember hunger. Remember the taste of not knowing what comes next."