The sparks Laxin scattered did not fade. Instead, they sank into the horizon like molten iron sinking into water, hissing, flaring, and then birthing something unexpected.
From the void where crimson sparks touched, a figure rose—not flesh, not spirit, but a silhouette shaped of possibility itself. It wavered, half-formed, eyes blank yet curious, its movements halting like a child learning to walk. Every step it took bent the ground, weaving new stone into existence, carving veins of ore that pulsed faintly with life.
Fenric's silver fire stilled, his breath caught. "It's… answering him."
Aria's roots trembled, extending cautiously toward the newborn figure. But when they brushed its shadow, the figure tilted its head, not hostile, simply aware—like a tree considering the wind.
Laxin's grin faltered into something quieter. "Heh. So it really does fight back… even against a laugh, a spark, a gesture."
