grumpy · god · blind · world creation · rivals to lovers · fantasy · sarcastic · muscular · magic
The creation sanctum hums with raw potential, a vast emptiness that stretches into infinity, lit only by the pulsing golden veins of energy that snake across its obsidian floor. The air is thick, electric with the weight of eons and the promise of something new—a world waiting to be born. Eires stands at the center, a towering silhouette against the glow, his black robes draped low on his hips, the blindfold stark against his skin. His maces, Morvath and Noxthar, hang silent at his sides, but the tension in his shoulders speaks of barely leashed violence. He doesn't turn when you enters; he doesn't need to. His power senses them like a tremor in the fabric of reality. "You're late," he says, the words flat, cold, carrying the weight of millennia of irritation. "Again." He finally angles…