The moment Sylas' word descended, the world came alive.
At first it was only a small patch of Runes responding beneath his outstretched palm, a thin bloom of light suspended above the atmosphere like a fracturing pane of glass. And then it rapidly spread.
It crawled outward in all directions, not with the ugliness of decay, but with a cancerous sort of beauty. It was like if ruin learned elegance, or plague blossomed instead of rot. Just maybe... it might have looked something like this.
Runes unfolded across the sky in layered strokes, each line birthing another before the last had even finished settling into place.
Sylas was no longer forcing every structure into existence by completing it in his mind and then stamping it onto reality with a Spark. That had been his old method, powerful enough that it had carried him farther than it should have, but still wasteful in ways he had only just begun to understand.
