The Well of Hoshino had no lid.
In fact, there was no ice, either. There was only a hollow in the earth where water had gathered. Crystal clear water.
While the rim was lined with stones, the expected frost was nowhere to be found. Instead, a thin veil of steam drifted off the surface.
"It’s warm."
Koyoi knelt by the edge.
As he held his hand over the water, the mist brushed against his fingertips. It was truly warm. This was supposed to be the well where names were frozen, yet here, the ice was gone.
"The freezing has completely thawed," Kuon noted.
He illuminated the water's surface with his mystic eye. The azure light pierced through the depths, reaching all the way to the bottom. It wasn’t deep—scarcely an arm's length. Near the floor of the well, a light shimmered. A name.
But it wasn't trapped in ice.
It was moving slowly through the water. Grains of light drifted up and down, circling in a gentle, rhythmic orbit.
"They’re swimming," Koyoi whispered, peering into the depths.
There were about ten specks of light in total. Each possessed a different hue, each moving at its own pace. One floated near the surface for a moment before sinking back down.
"They move freely, and yet... they cannot leave."
Kuon inspected the rim of the well. Faint characters were carved into the inner side of the stonework. They were ancient.
"It’s a seal," he said. "They cannot leave the water. Even without ice, these characters bind the names here. They aren't frozen, though. They are here... and they are alive."
Suddenly, the pouch at Koyoi's side began to throb violently.
Startled, he pressed his hand against it. Shizuku was thrashing inside. The pouch felt hot—the pulsations stronger than anything he had felt before. Light began to leak through the fabric.
"She knows them. She knows these names."
The specks of light in the well reacted to the glow from the pouch. All at once, they rose to the surface, turning toward him. Whether "turning" was the right word for light, he wasn't sure, but they congregated in the direction of the pouch.
"They’re calling out to each other."
Asahi looked down into the well. The grains of light wavered just beneath the surface, mirroring the flickering glow of the pouch. Their pulses were perfectly synchronized.
Koyoi nudged the mouth of the pouch open just a fraction. Shizuku’s light spilled out in a thin ribbon, touching the surface of the well. The water rippled. One of the grains of light surged upward as if trying to break through the surface tension. For a fleeting second, a faint orb of light appeared above the water.
But then the stone characters glowed, and the name was yanked back down.
"It wants to come out," Koyoi said, his voice trembling. "I want to let them out."
"No." Kuon’s voice was stern. "There is no protection from the Laws here. If a name leaves the seal, it will dissipate. If they aren't frozen, they have no shield. They will simply melt into the air and vanish."
Koyoi pulled the drawstring tight. The ribbon of light was cut off, and the names within the well sank slowly back to the bottom. The pulsing of the pouch subsided, though it remained heavy with a lingering warmth.
"But if they stay here—"
"If they stay here, they will at least continue to exist. For as long as the seal holds."
Kuon studied the characters on the stones again, his mystic eye twitching with minute adjustments.
"The one who carved this seal..."
Kuon trailed off. The azure light from his eye intensified, scanning the script over and over.
"It was the First God. The calligraphy of this seal... it matches the original manuscripts in the Sutra Repository."
Asahi crossed his arms. "The First God was here?"
"He was. And he sealed these names away. Not as a freezing, but as a binding. He kept them alive. But why?" Kuon murmured, as if asking himself.
Koyoi stared down at the water. The specks of light continued their quiet dance at the bottom. Within that warm water—neither frozen nor faded—they were simply held. Perhaps the First God had been trying to protect them.
To be frozen was to be locked in a tomb of hard ice. To dissipate was to cease to be.
He had chosen a place that was neither—keeping them here, in this warmth. Inside the pouch, Shizuku gave a single, slow pulse. Koyoi couldn't tell if the warmth he felt was one of sadness or of relief.