Dyndolod

“It’s overwriting,” Erik realized. “It’s replacing Tamriel with its memory of Tamriel.”

“We have time,” said the priestess. “We’ll guide you. One hold at a time.”

Erik had heard the old legends. Dyndolod —the god of the distant view, the spirit of mountains seen from afar. A sleeping Aedra who maintained the illusion of a finite world. As long as he dreamed, the distant lands stayed flat, simple, safe. But something had woken him. dyndolod

The first duplicate building appeared at the city gates—a second Gildergreen, sprouting from the dirt beside the real one, its leaves made of pixelated gold. A guard walked through it and came out the other side coughing ash.

By the time they reached the Tower of Mists—a bone-white spiral that hadn’t existed in any map—the sky had become a grid. You could see the vertices where clouds met empty space. Stars were just tiny square sprites. “It’s overwriting,” Erik realized

“You feel that?” he asked Jenassa, who was busy haggling a skeever-tail price down to something insulting.

Inside the tower, no stairs. Only a single infinite ramp spiraling upward through a tunnel of unrendered grey. And at the top, a chamber that was all draw distance: a circular room whose walls were a live feed of every horizon in Tamriel, each one flickering between low and high detail. One hold at a time

Probably.