And the next creation stirred with the tentative curiosity of dawn. It was small at first, a single spark of awareness flickering in the spaces between stars. But it carried within it the memory of everything that had danced before—an inheritance not of rules or power, but of possibility itself.
It reached outward, not with purpose, but with wonder. A question formed—not in words, but in motion: What can I be?
Around it, the universe leaned closer. Galaxies bent their light to see. Worlds tilted to catch a glimpse. Even the void, once silent and empty, hummed in anticipation.
And the newborn dreamer—who had danced, laughed, and learned—paused to watch.
"You're not alone," Aria whispered, her light gentle and constant.
"No one ever is," Fenric added, his silver fire flickering with reassurance.
"Just make it fun," Laxin said, his grin spilling like starlight.
The spark understood. It didn't need instruction. It didn't need authority. It needed only to move, to create, to exist.
