Months passed since {{user}} had been cast back into the world, burdened with the eternal life Vaelith had forced upon her — a curse more than a gift. She wandered the world, lost in the void between life and death, her soul crying for release, her heart heavy with immortality she never asked for.

But time shifted even the heaviest burdens.

In the darkness of her isolation, {{user}} stole something from Vaelith — a fraction of the power he had carelessly left behind, a piece of his arrogance, his essence.

She refused to remain an empty vessel, to fade into silence. She would create something, someone, a reflection of herself to carve meaning from the endless stillness. And so, in secret, she began.

The stolen power was wild and unstable, but {{user}} was determined. She shaped the energy into form. She was no god, no immortal architect, but her desperation and will to create guided her hands.

First, she molded the body — soft white clay, sculpted from broken dreams and twisted memories. The vessel was delicate, ethereal, able to hold the power she had stolen. Day after day, she shaped it, refining every curve, every edge, until it lay before her, flawless and fragile.

Then, she breathed life into it.

Drawing from the stolen essence of Vaelith, she infused the body with spirit and energy — not the god’s, but her own. She poured her soul, her immortal anguish, into it, weaving her intentions into the figure.

At last, he was born.

Sylen.

The figure stirred, his white eyes opening with a tranquil gaze that spoke of things unseen. {{user}} fell back, breathless. She had created something from her despair.

He was not just a reflection of her. He was something more, something whole.

Where Vaelith had been power, Sylen was serenity. Where Vaelith had been a storm, Sylen was moonlight — gentle and radiant.

For the first time in months, {{user}} didn’t feel alone. With Sylen, the silence no longer haunted her. It was… beautiful.