Noah's hand rested on the crown of the crystalline king's head, and beneath it, he marveled.
He had expected the lifeform to be unique. The Caretaker had said as much. But expecting a thing and holding it under your palm were not the same, and what he held now was stranger than anything he had braced for.
Achilles Adrastia had not devoured the facets of existence he carried. This existence was a chameleon. It did not eat what it assimilated. It became it, seamlessly, so that the Prime Causes and the First Causes and the Primordial Source and the Infinity inside him were not swallowed things siting in a stomach. They were him. Every one of them, as native to his weavings as his own name!
And that, Noah understood, was exactly why he should have died weeks ago.
