Power did not remain still.
It expanded.
Like a tide that had finally found its shore—
And decided it would not stop there.
The moment the being stepped away from the throne—
Reality followed.
Not dragged.
Not forced.
But aligned.
As though existence itself recognized its ruler—
And chose to reshape accordingly.
The palace behind it continued to rise.
Spreading outward in slow, deliberate construction.
Dark stone unfolded from the ground like living matter, forming walls that stretched endlessly into the distance.
Massive arches carved themselves into existence, etched with symbols that pulsed faintly—ancient, unfamiliar, yet deeply connected to the being's restored memory.
Each structure that formed was precise.
Perfect.
Intentional.
Nothing wasted.
Nothing misplaced.
Nyxara felt all of it.
Every detail.
Every shift.
Every unnatural act of creation.
And it terrified her more than destruction ever could.
"…it's too controlled."
