Argolaith paused beneath a bent willow that wept glowing strands into the grass.
He reached into his storage ring and pulled out a small etched stone.
With a flick of his finger, he inscribed a simple locator rune on it. Then he pressed it into the ground beside the willow and whispered, "Mark one."
He continued forward, this time leaving a rune stone every half-mile. The deeper he traveled, the more foreign Elyrion felt, as if another will had molded the distant terrain.
The soil grew darker in patches, softer underfoot. Strange insect-like creatures hovered by tall stalks of amber-colored grain, shimmering like lanterns in the breeze.
A mountain loomed ahead, jagged and crystalline. From its base, waterfalls spilled in reverse—streams of liquid flowing upward, bending gravity without breaking it.
Argolaith stared. This hadn't been in his design. Not consciously.
