The Jam is a conundrum, a sprawling labyrinth of viscous paths.
Traders of fleeting shadows whisper of corridors made of amber
where the flutes of long-forgotten elves summon stars in their
slumbering darkened cradle.
Maps twist here—bending under lantern light—
their ink winking between the lines of
rivers turned to liquid glass that hum
an ancient tune known only in dreams.
By the Bog of Stillness, sits the Treetop Spire, a pierce through
wishes made walled in song—upwards, the air grows
heavier with echoes of the world below.
Follow the spiral in the ink
mark your steps by the flutter
of crimson firefly banners