The void was infinite, stretching beyond comprehension. Neralyth floated in its depths, her cosmic scales glowing faintly in the surrounding darkness. She was no longer Arin Vale, the mortal artist, yet traces of her humanity lingered—a whisper of memories and emotions tethering her to the life she had once known.
Her claws flexed instinctively, and the cosmos rippled. A faint thread of light materialized before her, shimmering like liquid gold. It was fragile yet brimming with energy, twisting and bending as if awaiting her command.
"Streaklight," she murmured, her voice resonating in the empty expanse.
The word felt instinctive, an innate understanding of the energy coursing through her. It was the essence of creation, destruction, and everything in between—a raw force waiting to be shaped.
Neralyth reached out, her claw tracing the thread. As she touched it, colors erupted like fireworks, painting the void with swirling galaxies, cascading nebulae, and shimmering constellations. The beauty of it overwhelmed her, and for a moment, she was lost in the sheer wonder of her newfound power.
But the moment didn't last.
A deep, guttural voice echoed through the void, cutting through the vibrant display. "Creator, you awaken… but do you understand what you have become?"
Neralyth turned, her golden eyes narrowing as a massive shadow emerged from the darkness. The figure was draconic like her, yet far older and more menacing. Its scales glistened with the sheen of black holes, and its wings seemed to devour the light around them.
"Who are you?" she demanded, her voice steady despite the creature's imposing presence.
"I am Chorath, the Void Forger," the being replied, its tone dripping with disdain. "I am the first arbiter of this multiverse, and I have come to judge you."
Neralyth felt a flicker of unease. "Judge me? For what?"
"For wielding the Streaklight," Chorath growled. "It is not a gift, child. It is a burden, one that demands mastery and responsibility. Those unworthy of its power are consumed by it."
She bristled at his words, her wings flaring. "I didn't ask for this. I didn't choose to become… this."
"And yet, here you are," Chorath said, his gaze piercing. "You are no longer mortal, Neralyth. You are a creator, a weaver of existence. But the Streakweave is as dangerous as it is wondrous. Fail to master it, and you will unmake everything you touch."
The shadow dragon raised a claw, and the vibrant galaxies around them began to collapse, their colors bleeding into darkness.
"This is the cost of failure," Chorath said. "Chaos. Destruction. Oblivion."
Neralyth clenched her claws, her heart pounding. "And how do I master it?"
Chorath's gaze softened, though his tone remained stern. "By understanding its essence. The Streakweave is not merely a tool—it is an extension of you. Your emotions, your thoughts, your creativity… all of it fuels the light. To control it, you must first control yourself."
He gestured toward the swirling remnants of her earlier creations. "Begin here. Recreate what you have lost. Prove that you are worthy of this power."
Neralyth turned her focus to the void around her. The galaxies had been reduced to smears of color, their beauty erased in an instant. Taking a deep breath, she reached out with her claws, her mind envisioning the vibrant landscapes she had once painted as a mortal.
Slowly, the Streaklight responded. Threads of golden energy flowed from her claws, weaving together to form shimmering constellations. She poured her emotions into the creation—her wonder, her longing, her determination—and the threads began to take shape.
First came the stars, their light soft and warm. Then came the nebulae, swirling with rich hues of violet and blue. Planets followed, their surfaces teeming with life and color.
The void transformed before her eyes, and for the first time, she felt a sense of control.
But it wasn't enough.
The galaxies she created felt hollow, lifeless. She could see their beauty, but she couldn't feel it. Frustration welled within her, and the threads of Streaklight began to fray.
"You are too focused on the surface," Chorath said, watching her struggle. "Creation is not about perfection. It is about meaning. What do these galaxies mean to you?"
Neralyth paused, her claws trembling. She thought of her old life—her tiny apartment, her endless nights of painting, the dreams she had poured into every stroke of her brush. Those dreams had been her escape, her way of bringing beauty into a world that often felt bleak.
"I painted to make people feel something," she said softly. "To remind them that there's more to life than the ordinary."
"Then let that guide you," Chorath said.
Closing her eyes, Neralyth let her emotions flow freely. She thought of the wonder she felt when she first saw the meteors, the awe of holding the brush for the first time. She thought of her struggles as an artist, the loneliness and determination that had shaped her.
The Streaklight responded, weaving itself into a tapestry of light and color. This time, the galaxies pulsed with life, their stars glowing brighter, their planets teeming with energy.
When she opened her eyes, the void had been transformed.
Chorath nodded, a faint smile crossing his lips. "Well done. You are beginning to understand."
"What's next?" Neralyth asked, her voice steady.
Chorath's expression darkened. "Next, you learn the true cost of creation."
The shadow dragon spread his wings, and the void began to shift. The vibrant galaxies trembled, their light flickering as a new challenge awaited her.
To be continued...