The air in Elyrion was still.
Not lifeless—but calm.
As if the realm was pausing to breathe with him.
Argolaith stepped down from the ridge, his fingers brushing the cube tucked safely in his sleeve.
The glade to the east had stayed untouched long enough.
It was time to build.
He walked the stretch of warm grass and stopped in a crescent of stone and soil, where the land sloped gently against the hills.
Here, the light fell perfectly.
The frogs didn't come close, but a few watched from the nearby garden where time moved slower.
Argolaith knelt and pressed a palm to the earth.
Then he reached into his storage ring.
A gentle ripple of mana flared.
From the ring, he pulled smooth-cut planks of spiritwood, slabs of ancient stone, and polished beams reinforced with etched runes.
Everything he needed.
Each piece had been collected with purpose over the years.
He had never known why.
Until now.
He worked with quiet focus.
No hammers.
No saws.
