The stars above Elyrion pulsed gently, casting soft light over golden hills and windless grass.
Argolaith stood at the center of the basin, where the frogs he'd brought now rested beneath rune-warmed stones.
One by one, they blinked slowly—breathing in ambient mana, content in the quiet.
He knelt beside them, watching their peace ripple outward.
The realm had changed.
Not just in shape… but in spirit.
He rose and took a final look around.
The sun he'd added hovered high above—golden, but not burning.
Two stars drifted around it like distant guardians.
The realm's time-warped garden glowed softly to the east, rich with growing magic plants.
Elyrion was breathing now.
Not as a tool.
Not as a weapon.
But as a place to return to.
Argolaith lifted his hand and summoned a cube—one of his own making.
Its surface shimmered with shifting runes, neither magical nor purely material.
A construct of his magic, it could store mana or make spells.
