Argolaith walked beneath Elyrion's still sky, the windless air whispering through golden grass.
The trees—few and scattered—glowed with quiet life, but they made no sound.
There were no birds. No beasts. No breath.
Only silence, structured and waiting.
He wandered for hours, or maybe minutes. Time here didn't move unless he did.
The second star above burned softly, and the light beneath it shimmered, but nothing stirred in the distance.
No creatures. No movement. No life beyond what he'd planted.
And what the realm had shaped from him.
It wasn't enough.
Elyrion pulsed beneath his feet like a sleeping heart, but he felt it—lonely.
A realm needed more than roots and mirrors. It needed motion. Curiosity. Breath.
It needed to grow.
He whispered the exit glyph and stepped backward from the projection chamber.
The real world returned like a sigh—light brighter, air cooler, reality heavier.
