Camelia drew a deep breath, the air thick with the scent of unfamiliar flora and the faint, metallic tang of raw creation. The world hummed beneath her feet, a low, resonant note that vibrated in her bones.
This was no longer a theory, no lingering question. It was a tangible fact: the landscape shifted with her will, a terrifying, exhilarating power.
Atherion's hand, still clasped in hers, was a steadying presence. His thumb traced a slow, reassuring circle on her skin, a quiet acknowledgment of the burden she now carried.
He watched her, his silver eyes reflecting the alien sky, unwavering in his trust. He didn't speak, but his gaze held a question: What now?
Sylvara's sigh was a sharp cut through the quiet. "Right. So, we're still just… walking."
Her voice was laced with a brittle impatience, a reflection of the profound disorientation that clung to them all.
