The void did not retreat.
It swirled, folding back upon itself, as though the Eye were drawing in a long, contemplative breath. The formless figure—its limbs of nothing, its face of absence—hung suspended, flickering between erasure and recognition.
The newborn realm trembled on a knife's edge. Not erasing now, but not yet whole. It was clay between hands that had not decided whether to sculpt or shatter.
And then—
The Eye spoke again, softer than before. Its voice did not rumble like law or command. It was closer this time. Intimate. Like a whisper spoken from within their bones:
"Truth of being… endures. But will it bind?"
At those words, the land split. Not from destruction, but division.
On one side, Fenric's silver-threaded lattice shimmered, mountains forming geometric arcs, rivers straightening, law tugging the world into order.
