The first world descended in silence.
It rotated gently, trailing luminous ribbons of mist that shimmered with the colors of forgotten starlight. From a distance, it looked peaceful—green forests, distant mountains, rivers that bent in slow, lazy curves.
But as Argolaith stepped onto its surface, he knew.
It was hollow.
Not in form, but in spirit.
The people were there—hundreds of them. Scattered across open fields, clustered near the riverbanks, some huddled beneath the ancient trees. They moved, breathed, even murmured—but their eyes held nothing.
No purpose.
No fear.
No curiosity.
Just… motion.
As though they had been left half-made.
Argolaith stood still for a long moment, watching them.
Then he walked into their midst.
They didn't shy away.
They didn't greet him.
They simply stepped aside, blank-faced and quiet, as if part of the wind.
He sat in the grass.
And waited.
He spoke to them with no expectation of reply.
