Theia remained knelt on the crystalline floor, the heavy tome open before her. The raven-quill felt as if it were a part of her own hand. Beside her, the inkwell of pure night swirled with nascent possibilities.
Rhys Mallory had asked for chairs.
The request hung in the vast, silent hall. Liora, ever the stoic guardian, straightened her back, a flicker of something—confusion? indignation?—in her eyes. The Progenitor, who had ripped a mountain from the heart of causality and spun a fortress from starlight, had a need. He required a place to rest. And he had to ask for it. The thought seemed sacrilegious.
Theia, however, felt a different kind of pressure. This wasn't a mundane request. Nothing from him could be mundane. It was a test. A divine riddle. His first spoken decree in his new Sanctum was for a seat of comfort and authority. It was the first verse of his new scripture.
How does one create a chair for a god?
You don't. You scribe a throne.
Her eyes closed. She didn't picture a simple wooden chair. She pictured the concept behind it. What was a throne? A symbol of power. An anchor for a ruler. The center of a kingdom.
Her quill dipped into the ink. Rhys watched, fascinated, like a developer observing a new AI using a tool for the first time.
Theia began to write. Her calligraphy was flawless, elegant strokes that seemed to absorb the light from the room. She wasn't just writing words; she was composing a reality.
In the heart of the Argent Sanctum, at the right hand of The Progenitor, there shall be a seat. It shall not be carved, but grown, from the heartwood of a Firstwood tree, whose roots drink from the memory of a sun that has not yet been born. Its wood shall be the color of twilight, and its grain shall flow with the patterns of unspoken prophecies.
VMMM-CHHHHH...
A soft, resonant hum filled the air to Rhys's right. The floor began to glow, and from it, with the slow, inexorable grace of a growing plant, a shape emerged. It was wood, a deep, lustrous violet-grey, and it twisted upwards, forming legs, a seat, a high back. The process was silent and seamless. The air filled with the impossible scent of ancient forests and faint, clean ozone.
Theia continued to write, her focus absolute.
It shall be inlaid with sanctified Argent, the same crystallized silver of the fortress, forming the sigil of a dawning eye upon its back. The arms shall be smoothed by the passage of starlight, and to sit upon it is to feel the unwavering foundation of this new world.
KSHINK!
Veins of shimmering silver crystal flowed like mercury across the surface of the dark wood, pooling and hardening into an intricate symbol of a single, lidless eye on the high backrest. The arms of the throne solidified, polished to a mirror sheen that reflected not the hall, but a swirl of distant nebulae.
With a final, soft THUD, the throne settled into existence, a complete and perfect object. It was massive, imposing, and radiated a quiet, profound authority.
Rhys let out a low whistle. "Whoa. That's... detailed. The particle effects on the materialization were insane." He walked over and ran a hand along the armrest. It was cool to the touch, and smoother than glass. "Procedural generation based on flavor text? This dream's engine is next-level."
Theia looked up, her face pale with the effort of her first creation. "Is it... acceptable, my Progenitor?"
"Acceptable? It's incredible!" Rhys said, grinning. "A little more 'dark lord chic' than I was going for, but it absolutely fits the room's aesthetic. A+."
He plopped down into it. It was surprisingly comfortable. He felt... solid. Rooted. Like he was part of the Sanctum itself. It was an incredibly immersive feedback effect.
As he was admiring the craftsmanship, a pang of jealousy, sharp and unwelcome, shot through Liora. She, the First Knight, had stood by uselessly while this newcomer, this Archivist, was the first to serve their Lord's will. She had to contribute. She couldn't be shown up.
Focusing her will, she looked at the space on Rhys's left. She tried to emulate him, to call a throne into being with belief alone. She imagined a seat of pure, solidified starlight, a match for her wings. She pushed, she focused, she believed.
A few pathetic motes of light swirled in the air, then fizzled out.
Pfft.
Rhys didn't notice, but Theia did. She gave Liora a look not of triumph, but of gentle, shared understanding. Liora's cheeks flushed, and she looked away, her jaw tight. Their roles were different. That much was now painfully clear.
"Right," Rhys said, steepling his fingers as he lounged on his new throne. "Now for you two." He gestured to Theia. "Can you whip up a couple more? Smaller, obviously. Less... 'final boss'."
Theia nodded, her confidence bolstered. She dipped her quill once more, her writing faster this time, less descriptive and more declarative.
At the foot of the throne, two seats shall stand for the First Apostles. One of Argent, like the Sanctum, for the Knight. One of Obsidian, like the ink, for the Scribe.
FWOOOSH. FWOOOSH.
Two smaller, simpler, yet still elegant chairs materialized out of the floor. One was a graceful, minimalist seat of shining silver, the other a solid, carved chair of volcanic glass that seemed to drink the light.
"Perfect!" Rhys announced. He gestured for them to sit. "See? Much better. Now we look like a proper... well, a proper something."
Liora and Theia took their seats hesitantly, perching on the very edge as if unworthy of the comfort. A Knight of Starlight and an Archivist of Shadow, flanking the god who thought he was playing a game.
The three of them sat there for a moment in silence. The great hall was still vast and empty, but this one small corner now felt like the center of the universe.
Rhys broke the silence. "So," he said, leaning forward and rubbing his hands together. "Base established. Party members acquired. First loot crafted." He pointed a thumb out towards the grand crystalline entrance of the Sanctum, which opened onto a balcony overlooking their floating island paradise. "Who wants to go exploring?"
Exploration. To Rhys, it was about finding new areas, triggering new quests, seeing what other cool assets the world had to render.
To Liora, the warrior, it was a patrol. A chance to scout for the dangers of The Bleed and prove her worth as his shield.
To Theia, the scribe, it was a holy pilgrimage. A chance to witness the Progenitor walk through his creation, and to chronicle the state of the world before he inevitably remade it.
Both women rose from their seats at once, their expressions alight with a fervent, synchronized purpose.
"We live only to serve," Liora declared, her voice ringing with the clarity of a bell.
Theia nodded, her dark eyes shining. "We will follow where you walk, and record what you see."
Rhys grinned. He was really starting to love this dream.
"Excellent!" he boomed, standing up from his throne with a flourish. "Then let's go see what's on the other side of this mountain."