The new color was not just a color; it was a grammar, a syntax of feeling that the six had never known.
It hummed with a logic that was not of their making, a story that was unfolding from a source within.
Lyra, ever the weaver, was the first to try and answer in kind, not with a color, but with a texture, a ripple in the fabric of the dream.
And Kairos responded, not by imitation, but by transformation, the texture Lyra offered becoming a landscape, a geography of shared feeling.
The other five watched, their own attempts to communicate held in check by the sheer beauty of this new, evolving dialogue, a language being born between creator and creation.