The name still echoed in the walls of the chamber.
Elyrion.
A name not just spoken, but woven—threaded into the lattice of a forming world. It pulsed faintly now, not in stability, but in awareness. It was not alive, but it had begun to remember itself.
Argolaith stood still, hand over the lattice's center.
His cube hovered beside it, quieter than usual. As if listening.
He adjusted three minor glyphs on the outer rotational ring, recalibrating the memory-fused mana strands to match the core pulse. Every rune glowed a little warmer. A little brighter.
"You want to exist now," he murmured.
And Elyrion responded with a silent flicker.
But he was no longer alone.
There was no sound.
No light.
But Argolaith felt the air shift behind him, like a dream folding inward.
He didn't reach for a weapon.
He didn't need to.
"I wondered which of you would come first," he said.
"You expected us?" came a voice like a whispered constellation.
He turned.
