Stark against the ever-receding darkness of the sky, clearer even than the monolith-castle towering over the spectral city, [ VEIL ] wills a new object from the fabric of the Greater Dream.  Atoms align from chaos, shifting phase, adhering their unmatter to the concept projected from [ VEIL ]'s mind.  The hilt emerges first, cold from its vacuum conception, and lowers itself gracefully into [ VEIL ]'s upturned hand.  He turns the solid, weighted hilt in his hand, feeling its curves and edges, and notices a glow from within the metal, pulsing outward from the base.  The glow takes the form of a phantom blade, passing through the balcony railing ahead of him without issue.  [ VEIL ] takes a couple of steps backwards as the glow strengthens, an ethereal indigo, dreadfully distinct in the blood-black Greater Dream night.

Hilt humming in his hand, [ VEIL ] watches as near-invisible particles streak from the night, into the immaterial blade.  Unmatter materializing around him, singing from the expanse to meet the deep-mind glow with impossible speed.  Each particle fuses with the last - cells, interlinked - to complete the sword's form.  A glinting blade emerges to replace its inverse shadow: hungering and sharp-edged.  With the formation complete, the heft of the sword settles into his hand, and the similar weight of its mental constitution settles into his mind.

[ VEIL ] drops the concentration he was unconsciously holding, and the blade dissipates into the air, leaving the black metal hilt empty in his hand.  Indifferent, he steels himself against the night and leaps from the rooftop.  He falls aside his distorted reflection in the building's tinted windows, watching his cloak twist and furl wildly around him.  Near the ground, now, he aligns the hilt perpendicular to the windows flashing upwards, and wills the blade back from the void.  The ringing song of unmatter is met by shattering glass and a terrible grinding of unmatter steel against concrete.  [ VEIL ] decelerates quickly as he reaches the ground, dropping his concentration as his feet near the street.  The blade dissipates again and he lands roughly - but uninjured - on the street, the sparks thrown outwards by his descent raining around him, harsh illumination streaking through the air to meet the ground.  He tucks the hilt of the sword under his cloak, and moves towards the ARGOS DEEP.

The sparks die quietly underfoot, plunging the street back into spectral darkness.

The building behind him blurs its wound shut.