The revising hand did not let go.

It tightened until the white-glass quarantine circle that had already shattered began to re-form around the five of them—Zelda, the pup, the girl, the gold-eyed boy, and the wrist of absolute revision itself. The circle was no longer a containment field. It was a negotiation table forced into existence by the collision of an expanding bloodline account and the process that had never before been required to sit across from one.

The six syllables of the shared name burned in a closed circuit through small hands and adult heart. Every pulse of the name bit deeper into the revising hand. Every pulse of...