“Words are seeds, Casiopea. With words you embroider narratives, and the narratives breed myths, and there’s power in the myth. Yes, the things you name have power,” he said. Casiopea clenched her hands together, and her heart clenched too, and she nodded solemnly, though she also sighed when he drew away from her. They were quiet and they were foolish, both of them, thinking they were treading with any delicacy, and that if they somehow moderated their voices they’d stop the tide of emotion. The things you name do grow in power, but others that are not ever whispered claw at one’s heart
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