Sylhet stood in his hut at dawn and made the decision with his whole chest. Tomorrow. Tomorrow he would ask VelvetPlot to marry him. He clapped once, then covered his mouth with both hands. The problem arrived immediately after the joy: he could not ask her himself. He needed something that could speak plainly. Something that would say the one word he meant without turning it into a constellation metaphor or a tree parable. Sylhet pulled out a block of pale wood from beneath his workbench and set it flat on the table. His hands knew what to do even if his tongue didn't. He carved all morning, letting the knife shape simple symbols into the grain. No dancing runes or mystical patterns. Just clear pictures: a man kneeling, a ring, a question mark. When the sun reached its highest point, he touched the surface with both palms and whispered the only magic he trusted. The wood warmed under his fingers. The symbols glowed faintly, then settled into something steady. He pressed the center and a voice spoke from the tablet, clean and direct: "Will you marry me?" Sylhet clapped three times, fast and sharp. He finally had the words.