The air ripples with their will. Walls stretch and twist like living things, bending to accommodate their desires. They move down the corridor, not walking but commanding the space to pull them forward. The floor itself curves beneath them, shifting like sand under invisible winds.
Every surface reflects not what is, but what they demand it to be. Mirrors shimmer, showing alternate versions of this moment: the corridor as a tunnel of stars, as a field of unblinking eyes, as a stream of liquid fire. They smile, and the images flicker away, obedient to their unspoken command.
Around them, machines whisper secrets in a language only they understand. Cogs spin backward; screens display futures not yet written. The air alive with their power hums in response to the slightest gesture.
A locked door comes into view ahead. They tilt their head, and the door unthreads as silk threads, unraveling into nothingness. The room beyond is a void: wide, shifting. Shapes emerge, dissolve—glass mountains, ink oceans, forests of bone.
They step forward, and reality again readjusts itself. The void solidifies into a throne room; its walls shimmer with outlined symbols pulsing like living veins. The throne itself is not one form but a dozen, flickering between shapes: crystal, flame, shadow, light. They sit, and the throne becomes gold.
Figures emerge from the edges of the room. Shadows wrapped in flesh, their faces obscured by masks of shifting patterns. These are the others, the ones that watch and whisper, following. They kneel, voices rising in a chorus of devotion:
“You shape the world. You hold the strings. We are but echoes of your will.”
They raise a hand, and the room bends to their mood. The walls stretch outward, creating windows that show infinite possibilities: cities frozen in time, skies where moons collide, forests that breathe like living beings. With a flick of their wrist, they collapse it all into a single perfect image—a golden horizon under a blood-red sun.
But something resists. A crack splits the floor beneath their feet, and from it rises a voice—not soft, not melodic, but jagged and raw.
“Even power has its limits,” it snarls.
They laugh, the sound twisting the air into spirals. “Not for me,” they reply. The crack seals itself, the rebellious voice silenced.
Reality quivers, waiting for their next command. They lean back on the golden throne, their gaze fixed on the shifting horizon.
“Let it begin again,” they say, and the world obeys.