The Hidden Tides of Metal and Echo
In this world where wishes harden into steel, the fog speaks in whispers. Iron sings, its tune rustless and crystalline in the cathedral of forgotten echoes. A chapter unwritten yet eternal, sung by the coldest embers beneath the skin of night.
The elders carved the air, shaping shadows into stories longer than shadows themselves. A book breathing with the pulse of invisible tides, each page a mirror reflecting what cannot be seen but only felt.
Beneath the quiet of starless skies, the continent of stories grows. Each island a chapter, each shore resonant with the echoes of time, kissing fleeting traces of presence and absence. Do not follow paths, follow whispers.
In this land of seamless borders, every iron man serves a memory, every shadow a promise yet to happen. The horizon unravels like a forgotten melody, fading into the embrace of the colorless Mezzanine.
Trace your fingers along the forgotten sinews of history. In the hands of flame is truth laid bare, knitting an intricate lattice beneath the eyelids of sleep.