The world had a name now: Elirion.
And names had power.
From the breath of the Seedling's first word to the stonework foundations of Nexis, Darius watched as the fabric of a world began stitching itself together—an act not of code, but of intent. It wasn't built line by line, algorithm by algorithm. It was dream-built, memory-forged, and paradox-laced.
Sky birthed itself in hues of forgotten sunsets. Rivers sang old lullabies. The mountains had no gravity, only resolve. This wasn't a return to the old world—it was something else, something that remembered ruin and dared to be born anyway.
But for all the beauty blooming in Elirion's bones, the seeds of its future were not all pure.
