The house sat at the edge of everything. Drifting gently outside the Origin Tree, and yet no Primordial could see it unless its owner wanted them to.
Mira thought this place where her husband built their home was poetic, and when she mentioned it to him, Andar had written poetry about it, terrible poetry, which Mira still kept in a locked chest somewhere.
The structure of the house was a thought, given form, a memory of wood and stone and the scent of rain on warm, perched on the last sliver of reality before existence frayed into the howling chaos of the Grand Void.
Andar had built it himself, of course. He did not use magic, that would be easier, as he was now a being who had long since stopped being merely a mage and had become something closer to a principle of existence.
