Atherion stood beside her, his face damp with spray, a profound sense of awe softening the sharp lines of his features.
He reached out, letting the ceaseless flow of water cascade over his open palm, his red eyes reflecting the shifting light of the new sun. His trust in Camelia was not just an anchor; it was a boundless acceptance of the impossible.
Sylvara, too, seemed to shed a layer of her perpetual vigilance. She watched the waterfall with a quiet intensity, her usual skepticism momentarily silenced by the sheer grandeur of the scene.
The spray kissed her face, and a faint, almost imperceptible smile touched her lips. This was a world being woven, and even her guarded heart could not deny its breathtaking beauty.
Morgath, ever the observer, merely hummed, her dark eyes fixed on Camelia.
"A creation born of deep desire," she murmured, her voice barely audible above the roar of the falls. "The world listens, little architect. What else yearns to be heard?"
