“danlwd fyltrshkn byw byw bray wyndwz”

“The world before the world,” said the figure. “Where the wind remembers your real name.”

“Him who?”

The window began to weep. Not condensation—tears, black and slow.

The innkeeper leaned close. His breath smelled of licorice and gravesoil. “That’s a reminder , lad. Not for you. For him.”

“…byw…”

“What is it?” Llyr asked. “A cipher? A child’s scribble?”