The light in the chamber had changed.
It wasn't gone—it was simply… quieter.
Dimmer in a way that didn't feel weak, but deliberate. Like Elyrion had exhaled and chosen stillness instead of strain. The faint hum that had once filled the walls, the constant tension in the overlapping magical threads—it was all gone.
Replaced by balance.
Argolaith stood with one hand still resting on the obsidian slate. The ancient sigil now glowed faintly at the center of the spellframe, etched into the protective shell he had placed around Elyrion's realm-core. It pulsed once every few seconds, like a heartbeat filtered through a dream.
The cube hovered beside him, fully silent now. Not lifeless—just at rest.
Everything was holding.
He stepped back slowly, watching the shimmering threads of Elyrion's celestial crown—three spiraling glyphs—reform themselves into a compact loop around the suspended core. The inner landforms he'd etched days ago held steady: no tremors, no drift.
