Argolaith stood within the resonance chamber, surrounded by layers of glowing runes, floating charts, and suspended lattices of mana-weft constructs.
The first star of Elyrion pulsed gently overhead—a golden light that illuminated the spellwork below like a sun rising inside thought itself.
The core pulsed now with regular rhythm.
It was time.
Time to give the realm a body.
Not a soul. Not a sky.
But land—terrain that would define where dreams stepped, where mountains grew, and where rivers would eventually wind like memory.
Argolaith stood before the hovering realm-core and reached into his cube.
From it, he drew:
A sliver of red sand collected during his journey through the broken outer territories of Morgoth.
A feather of time-frozen ash taken from the burning cliffs of the Sixth Trial.
A tear-shaped shard of starlight obsidian given to him by the being sealed under the Twelfth Gate.
He placed each into a rotating spiral around the core, and spoke no words.
