The Plain of Fossilised Light
Beyond the ash lay a plain where light had fallen for ages.
Not gentle light — but relentless illumination, striking the same ground again and again until the soil crystallised into black glass.
The glass remembered every strike.
Travellers walked its hardened corridors as if guided by ancient design. Their feet slipped easily along its polished surfaces. To deviate was possible — but costly.
At the margins, the ground remained soft and unstable. But the centre had fossilised into something that felt inevitable.
No law had commanded this.
It was repetition that hardened the earth.
The plain did not enforce obedience.
It shaped inclination.
Liora knelt and touched the glass.
It was warm with the memory of countless prior descents.
Tradition was not rule.
It was sedimented light.
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