Dorian’s first thought came fast — visceral, absolute.
This place is not meant for mortals.
The sky stretched overhead in layered colors that had no names — shades that lived somewhere between blue and violet and molten gold, threaded with something older and wilder still. They shifted like oil on water, swirling in patterns that pulled at the eyes and hurt to look at directly.
Mountains rose in the distance, their peaks jagged as shattered glass. Wind moved through them, and the mountains sang — a low, resonant hum that vibrated in Dorian’s chest, in his bones, in the spaces between his thoughts.
Below, water wound through luminous valleys.
It did not reflect light.
It did not glow.
It was light — liquid and living, as if the rivers themselves were made of drifting stars.
On the h
