.
---
[POV: Ezekiel]
Most people don't understand what a word does.
They think speaking is an act of emotion.
Of instinct.
Of interaction.
They're wrong.
---
Speaking is a claim.
> I exist.
I am thinking.
I want something.
Words drag reality closer to you—make it form around what you say.
But when you're a Vessel…
> Words don't describe the world.
They start rewriting it.
---
The first time he tried to speak after the Pale Garden, his throat bled.
Not outside.
Inside.
He hadn't said much.
Just "stop."
But something behind his ribs tried to take that word and give it Law.
And the world isn't made for Law spoken raw.
---
So he learned.
> Don't speak unless the shape of your breath matches the weight of what must be.
---
For weeks, he stayed silent.
Not afraid.
Just calculating.
Every time he almost said something, the mirrors cracked.
The floor bent.
A servant's eardrum burst.
---
It wasn't a curse.
It was a warning.
Azrael did not forbid words.
Azrael simply recognized their price.
---
So Ezekiel stopped wasting them.
He started shaping thoughts like verdicts.
Measured.
Defined.
Truthful in form, even if not in content.
He didn't speak lies—not because he was noble.
But because lies ripple harder when you carry Law.
---
Now that he can speak again, he chooses carefully.
Because one wrong word could bind something unintentionally.
One reckless sentence could trigger a Conceptual echo across the continent.
He remembers one moment—
In the mirror, two weeks after the Pale Garden.
He whispered:
> "I wish they had died slower."
The walls turned black for a day.
The light in the chamber inverted.
---
Words are not weapons.
Not for him.
> They are laws he cannot repeal.
So when he speaks now—
when he says Witness
or Not yet
or Leave me alone—
he means it.
Fully.
Completely.
Without margin.
---
Let the others chatter.
Let them fill the air with noise.
He'll speak when it matters.
And when he does—
> The world will listen.