Jude did not move. The voice behind the nameless door had sounded exactly like his own, but there was something beneath it that made his skin prickle. It was not merely older.
It carried a strange familiarity, like a sentence he had heard countless times in a dream and forgotten every morning.
"Please let me out."
The fourth Sol stood beside him, trembling.
"Who is behind that door?" Jude asked.
The boy shook his head.
"You said he made us."
"I know."
"Then tell me who he is."
"I don't know what to call him."
"Is he another Jude?"
The boy stared at the door.
"He was Jude before there was a Jude."
Jude looked at the twelve other doors. Each one carried a name, and beneath each name was a small symbol. Some were familiar: the crescent, the three curved lines, the silver leaf. Others were unfamiliar, like fragments of a language that had been erased from the world.
"Where are my wives?"
The fourth Sol looked towards the doors.
"They're behind those."
"Are they safe?"
