In the vastness of his kingdom, the expanse of hills covered in black dust continued in mute-perpetuity, and it was from this silence that the god here heard the clamor of all his shadows, from the newborn ones to those forged in the dawn of time.
Deep in this nethermost sanctum, the once-mortal rose from the throne of shadows. At his first gesture, the whole realm shivered in rapt anticipation. At the second, the silhouettes of his privy council unfurled from dormancy. At the third, the tattered remnants of erstwhile gods remembered anew the identity of their absolute ruler.
Assuming a guise of humanity, he appeared as an alabaster-skinned figure—beauteous as a solitary raindrop traversing the firmament to rejoin its kin below. His hair cascaded like a tranquil waterfall that merged seamlessly with the umbral tide beneath him, while a sable tunic, seemingly plain, yet sewn with flawless precision, clung to his form.
At Sunless's merest whim, creation acquiesced. Hundreds of thousands of onyx hands erupted across the shadowland: some slender as mortal arms, others tall as pines that pierced the zenith, still others titanic as skyscrapers, all compelled to breach the empyrean and seize the river of essence that carried the remnants of all life that was coming to an end.
As those limbs groped skyward, new branches sprouted from the very void between fingers, unfurling in fractal proliferation: extremities of immensity inconceivable, dwindling to dimensions nearly microscopic.
And then, God's tools touched the stream of essence of all life, and from it, they made threads.
The skies that once seemed starry with clouds of light, now seemed to be intersected with galaxies throughout their entire length, each bright line followed by other two umbral ones.
Thus the labor of an entire cosmos progressed, heedless of chronology. Threads intertwined and elongated, thousands were birthed while tens of thousands sundered upon the horizon of death's dominion. At last, the monarch of shadows spoke.
"This first set should work." And then, one of his hands moved against himself, towards his abdomen, and then crossed what would be his flesh, only to disappear upon contact, the realm trembled.
Beyond the hands created from shadows that bordered on creation, above the swirling clouds of essence, above the infinitely large divine shades, one of the seven black suns moved. Sunless withdrew his hand, now clutching a solitary strand of ebon essence.
And from the tapestry created in the sky of the shadow realm, a thread was drawn to Him.
The inaugural nexus was forged. The start of a new Spell.
Superior than the last, such was the necessity. If he was to bring about the transformations he envisioned, nothing less than exceptional would suffice.
The plan had already crystallized in his mind. Soon, he would cast his memories backward along the braided threads of fate. And rather than dragging others through the perilous currents of time, it would prove far more elegant, and far more effective, to let them witness the truth through a faithful reconstruction, wrought by the very sorcery that had once birthed the original nightmare spell.