Argolaith walked through starlight.
The path from the realm of the Galaxy Maker back to Morgoth was not a road—it was a thought. A ribbon of space that curled between dimensions like a bridge woven from memory and will.
With each step, he felt it.
A quiet spark.
Not fire. Not light.
But magic.
His own.
Still faint. Still waiting. But real.
It pulsed behind his ribs like a second heartbeat, a whisper of stars long silent, now learning how to sing again.
He did not rush.
He let each step settle into the soil of reality.
Because what awaited him now was not a trial.
It was continuation.
And for the first time in countless lifetimes, he walked not as a seeker—
But as himself.
When the veil finally thinned and dissolved behind him, the light of the void melted away.
And Morgoth returned.
Not as he left it.
But as it had always been.
Endless skies. Cold grass brushing his boots. Air tinged with faint magic, heavy with distance and silence.
And there—
