Not clouds. Not a dragon. The very LOD—the low-resolution impostor mountains and distant tree billboards that had always sat placidly on the horizon—began to shudder. Then they grew . The paper-flat pines of Falkreath’s distant treeline thickened into three-dimensional trunks. The jagged tooth of Bleak Falls Barrow, usually a grey smear from here, resolved into individual stones, moss, and a broken parapet that had never existed until now.
“It’s overwriting,” Erik realized. “It’s replacing Tamriel with its memory of Tamriel.” dyndolod
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. Not clouds