The Root was not merely a vessel for forgotten memories. It was a vessel for forgotten *names* — every true name erased by the long, patient work of the First Revision and everything that had followed it, preserved here in some form even after the rest of the world had ceased to remember they had ever existed. Every person, every place, every story stripped of its rightful name over the ages had left some faint trace here, waiting, dormant, for the moment it might be called upon again.
As she withdrew her hand, one phrase settled into her mind with startling clarity, as though the Root itself had chosen to offer it to her directly.
*The Namer of Stories.*
