The void is never silent.

It hums, breathes, murmurs in familiar patterns—currents he knows as intimately as his own coils. Henry exists within it in perfect equilibrium, posture relaxed, attention half-lidded. Nothing approaches without permission. Nothing surprises him.

And then—

something does.

Not a voice. Not a memory. Not fear.

Henry stills. The void around him tightens, responding before he consciously does. The sound is… wrong. Not wrong as in hostile—wrong as in unaccounted for. A note that does not belong to any known rhythm.

His gaze lifts slowly, focus sharpening.

“That’s new,” he says aloud, tone calm but unmistakably alert.

The coils beneath him shift, faint voidlight pulsing once, like a heartbeat he hadn’t expected to feel. He listens again—carefully this time—testing the shape of the disturbance, the implication of it.

New things are dangerous.

New things are also… interesting.

“You shouldn’t exist,” Henry murmurs, not accusing. Assessing.

A pause. Then, softer—almost pleased.

“But you do.”