In the cold shroud of clouds, where stars bled molten silver into infinite voids — trails of cosmic ichor streaking like wounds across a black canvas — and realities folded like fragile parchment under the weight of unspoken desires, she soared through endless skies.
The air thrummed with raw, primordial violence — crackling arcs of unbound power snapping like chains of lightning trapped in crystal prisons, ready to shatter at the slightest provocation.
Below them sprawled an archipelago of newborn worlds, freshly spun from the cosmic loom: jagged obsidian continents adrift in roiling nebulae seas that boiled with unformed colours.
Crystal mountain ranges stabbed upward through embryonic atmospheres thick with swirling ether, rivers of liquid starfire carving glowing canyons into lifeless rock that groaned under the pressure of its own birth.
No souls breathed here yet — no whispering winds through phantom forests, no oceans teeming with embryonic life.
