Aethon stood amidst the ruins of the shattered canyon, his massive storm-forged hand outstretched as snowflakes fell upon his skin and did not melt. They landed softly, each one a perfect crystalline geometric proof of Elemental Authority, and he stared at them with something like wonder.
They were blue-gold and vibrant and impossible, carrying the weight of Sextillions in Complexity, enough power to crush a lesser being into quantum dust, yet they rested on his palm with the gentleness of a memory.
This is Elemental, Aethon thought as the sensation washed over his existential core, his mind reeling with recognition.
It was undeniable. It wasn't mimicry or a clever illusion spun from Mana or Hunger, but the fundamental resonance of the Elements themselves, pure and unadulterated and singing with a frequency he hadn't felt since the golden age of the Earliest Folds.
How?
