The wind drifts lazily through the endless illusion, carrying the scent of flowers that never wilt. Above me, the sky wavers between golden dawn and violet dusk, never settling, never real. This world exists in a liminal state—caught between dreams and reality, between life and death.And I am its god.I stand atop a black tower, gazing down at the false paradise I have created.White marble cities glisten under a sun that does not burn. Rivers of silver flow through valleys untouched by war. Birds, crafted from stray memories, sing melodies that have long been forgotten. It is perfect. Beautiful. And entirely fake.At the heart of it all, in a garden blooming with ever-blossoming trees, two figures sit beneath the shade of pink petals. A woman and a child.Cecil Hawthorn and Actavio.Helio believes they are dead.He grieves them.And I have no intention of correcting him.A smirk tugs at my lips as I descend the tower. The world bends around me as I move, the illusion adjusting to my