The path wound downward through stone corridors shaped by wind and impossible geometry. At times, Viridion wasn't sure if they were descending or climbing — the incline seemed to reverse mid-step, and the horizon swapped sides without warning.
Then the fog broke, and the settlement came into view.
It clung to the side of the Irkhal Peaks like a half-forgotten sketch — houses carved from pale granite, roofs painted with spirals that never connected. Wooden walkways linked the homes, but some ended abruptly in empty space, only to continue again several meters away.
The people moved through it all as if nothing was strange.
An old woman poured tea from a kettle that steamed in reverse — vapor curling into the spout instead of rising. A boy chased a hoop that never touched the ground, rolling endlessly in a circle that seemed to be its own shadow.
"Do they know?" Viridion asked quietly.
"They don't need to," Oriven replied. "When you grow up in a contradiction, you stop looking for its edges."
As they entered the main square, heads turned — not in fear, but recognition. Oriven returned a few nods, though his expression didn't soften.
A bearded man with oil-stained hands stepped from behind a stall. His eyes were sharp, scanning Viridion in a way that felt more like measurement than greeting. "New apprentice?"
Oriven ignored the question. "We'll need lodgings."
The man's gaze didn't leave Viridion. "If you're teaching him here, best keep him away from the mirror well. Outsiders don't take kindly to seeing the version of themselves that didn't arrive."
Viridion's pulse quickened. "The what?"
"Later," Oriven said, moving on. "First, you eat."
They reached a modest inn at the far end of the square. The sign above the door was a carved knot — no clear start, no end. Inside, the air was warm, heavy with the scent of spiced grain and mountain resin. A fire burned in the hearth, but its flames curled downward like roots.
Viridion took a seat at a corner table. Oriven remained standing, scanning the room.
"These people," Viridion said, "do they ever leave?"
Oriven shook his head slightly. "They could. But why would they abandon a place where paradox works in their favor?"
Viridion frowned. "Works in their favor? It can kill you."
Oriven's gaze finally met his. "So can truth."
The innkeeper approached with two bowls of steaming broth and a quiet smile. Viridion noticed the liquid wasn't still — it rippled toward the edges of the bowl, as though something at the center was repelling it.
As Oriven sat, he spoke low, so only Viridion could hear.
"Eat. Watch. Listen. In a place like this, philosophy isn't written in books. It's in the way they build their homes, in the games their children play, in the rules they follow without speaking. Learn those, and you'll understand more about the Paradox Engine than any lecture could give you."
Viridion picked up his spoon, but his eyes kept drifting to the window — where the fog had begun curling upward again, as if the sky had decided to reclaim the village.