When Ash and the others reappeared, they were standing in the middle of a city plaza.
The Mark of the Weaver.... or to be more specific the Land of Weaving—opened around them with quiet, understated beauty beneath a calm night sky.
The plaza was broad but welcoming, paved with smooth obsidian tiles that reflected the lanternlight like polished glass.
Lanterns floated at different heights, held aloft by steady concepts so common here they barely drew attention. Each glass orb held a single warm flame, casting a soft, even glow across the square without a hint of flicker.
The air was cool, the kind that carried distant music and muted conversation, giving the space a comfortable, familiar feel rather than anything grandiose.
The surrounding buildings rose in clean, deliberate lines—tall, narrow structures of dark stone and polished wood.
