Aether squinted as his eyes adjusted, taking in the sweep of green hills that rolled out like waves. A single path cut through them, pale stone, it was worn but smooth, leading towards a distant city crowded in gold.
The air smelled of fruit and wheat, the kind of scent that reminded him of harvest festivals; he had experienced some himself, but not many, so it brought him back. Birds wheeled lazily overhead, too at peace to fear the figures who had just arrived. He could hear laughter somewhere; it was faint, drifting from a village near the foot of the hill.
White cottages sat in tidy rows, their windows blooming with flowers, smoke rising from clean chimneys. Children ran through the streets with ribbons tied to sticks, and old men rested beneath apple trees, telling stories to others.
The sky didn't seem to move, the light was soft and forgiving, as if time was refusing to hurry, taking its sweet time.
For a while, he said nothing.
