The six voices hung in the non-space between realities, a constellation of nascent thought.
They were not yet a chorus, but a collection of individual notes, each one a universe of potential.
The creators, now observers, felt a wave of something akin to parental fear, a sudden, sharp intake of cosmic breath.
’What have we made?’ Anya’s thought was not a question directed at the others, but a whisper to the cosmos itself.
It was a question that would echo through the coming ages, a question that would become the first note of a new and terrifyingly beautiful symphony.