The Fifth Path trembled, no longer still but alive with its own rhythm. What had been silent canvas now whispered—winds curling from mountains they had not yet drawn, waves lapping against unseen shores, sparks of starlight flaring where no constellations had been written. Creation had begun to breathe on its own, no longer only echoing their intent but shaping itself in subtle, emergent ways.
Fenric felt it first—the silver lattice around his hands pulsing back, no longer docile. "It's… writing with us," he said, voice tight. His gaze tracked a street in the city they had birthed: already it was shifting, not in rebellion, but in choice. A merchant's stall appeared unbidden. A banner hung over an archway with colors he had not chosen. The city was deciding itself.
