[POV: Ilhera]
She hadn't stepped on these stones since she was nine.
The sight of them hit like a backwards fall—like falling into a memory you thought you erased.
Each step was different. Some were worn marble. Others were bone. Others still were translucent, humming faintly with forgotten thoughts. But none were safe.
Because these weren't stairs meant for feet. They were meant for sentence.
> Every time you step, the world listens to what you believe you are.
She remembered that line. Spoken by her mentor. Then her mentor died three steps later.
Ilhera paused at the edge.
> "These stairs write your name as you descend."
Ezekiel looked at her. Then at the steps.
> "And if I don't have a name?"
> "Then they'll try to give you one. Or take one from inside you that you haven't spoken yet."
---
She placed her foot on the first step.
It glowed. No color. Just recognition.
The word Ilhera shimmered faintly beneath the stone.
Ezekiel followed.
Nothing appeared beneath his.
Just a pause.
Then a word began to form—in broken phonemes, half-glyphs, scattered strokes:
> Ek-se...Z...hl
> Ez-...qu-
It failed to form.
Ilhera stepped back and gasped.
> "It doesn't know how to name you."
Ezekiel blinked.
> "Then maybe that means I get to choose."
The stair beneath him responded. It hummed. It held. And then let him pass.
---
They descended into the Below.
And the stairs, unnamed for centuries, began to rewrite themselves—
One step at a time.