Echo was last. They had remained silent throughout the declarations of the others, their presence a quiet and steady hum in the background of the unfolding narrative.
’And you, Echo?’ Lyra’s voice was gentle, a soft counterpoint to the powerful declarations that had come before. ’What are you?’
Echo did not answer immediately. Instead, they seemed to draw the narrative in around them, the threads of the story glowing with a soft, internal light.
’I am not a thread,’ Echo said at last, their voice a chorus of every voice that had ever spoken in the story, and every voice that was yet to speak.
’I am the loom.’