There were moments when the desert threatened to unmake the spectacle. A soft, dry gust would hollow out tiny caverns beneath the track, or the moon would slip behind a bank of cloud and flatten the contours of shadow. Yet every perturbation revealed something: slimes adopt, rearrange, become more cunning in the face of instability, and Fischl, too, recalibrated. Each adjustment was a stanza added to the poem of the night.
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