Sentience did not creep in.
It did not evolve gradually, nor did it announce itself with ceremony. There was no threshold moment where intelligence crossed a measurable line, no missing link to point at afterward and say there, that was it.
A creature thought about itself.
That was enough.
The realization did not arrive gently. It did not ask permission. One moment there was instinct, pattern, hunger, fear—and the next there was I.
The result was immediate madness.
Not screaming, not collapse, not terror.
Just… madness.
Because that was the realm's nature, and awareness did not exempt anyone from it. If anything, it accelerated the process. The newly sentient did not question why their thoughts bent sideways or contradicted themselves. They simply accepted that thinking felt like this and moved on.
There was no origin myth for consciousness.
There was no philosopher who figured it out.
It just happened.
And then civilization followed, because that too was inevitable once enough beings realized they were not alone in realizing anything.
The first settlements were chaotic but functional. Rabbits built alongside bears. Birds nested within structures that were technically houses, if one ignored the fact that they refused to acknowledge gravity in a consistent direction. Other creatures—some mammalian, some not classifiable by any sane taxonomy—joined without ceremony.
Species boundaries mattered less than proximity.
Architecture emerged almost immediately and made absolutely no attempt to be reasonable.
Stairs climbed upward and reached nowhere, yet stepping off the final step always deposited you somewhere useful. Doors opened sideways, diagonally, or inward through angles that did not exist, leading to attics that were clearly basements and basements that overlooked the sky.
Buildings leaned ninety degrees up.
Not forward.
Not backward.
Up.
The tilt was impossible, but stable. Everything rested against everything else in ways that would collapse under scrutiny but never did. Interiors were larger than exteriors—not metaphorically, not perceptually, but measurably so. A hut that could barely hold three rabbits from the outside could contain an entire market square within.
No one found this strange.
This was simply how space behaved here.
Food culture developed quickly.
Eating was social. Eating was loud.
Meals screamed.
Some foods laughed when bitten. Others begged briefly, then complimented the diner on their technique. Certain dishes alternated between terror and delight with every chew. This was not seen as cruelty or novelty—it was considered polite for food to participate.
Silence at the table was rude.
Some creatures apologized to their meals. Others thanked them afterward. Both practices were equally respected.
Far from the elongated forests and far too close to them at the same time, a kingdom rose within the candy lands.
No one remembered founding it.
It was simply there when enough sentient candy-based beings agreed it had always been there.
Its people were edible.
Entirely.
Sugar-flesh, caramel bones, brittle joints that cracked pleasantly when bent too far. Eating one another was not taboo—it was tradition, ceremony, intimacy. To be consumed was to be included. To be eaten and regrown was a sign of favor.
They did not see it as violence.
They saw it as recycling.
Festivals involved shared disassembly. Royal banquets were participatory. Kings were chosen based on flavor preference and texture resilience. Succession crises were solved by group consensus and, occasionally, dessert.
They were mad.
They were thriving.
Elsewhere, mixed-species cities expanded. Language fractured into sounds that conveyed meaning sideways, emotionally, or only when spoken while walking backward. Laws contradicted themselves on purpose, because consistency invited exploitation.
And always—always—the giggling persisted.
Faint.
Distant.
Unlocatable.
It echoed through streets and forests and candy halls alike, never closer, never farther, as if the universe itself found all of this faintly amusing.
Above it all—still unaware, still dreaming without images—the realm continued to be what it was.
Civilization had begun.
No one asked for permission.