Next Event

A large mountain can be seen in the distance. Clouds do not drift across its peak. They divide around it. There are no slopes in the natural sense. The ascent is made of vast, angled planes, each one too straight, too precise, as if carved by a mind that does not allow accidents. Fracture lines run through the black surface like veins of dull silver, branching in geometric patterns that never quite repeat.

The higher you climb, the more the sky seems to darken — not with cloud, but with contrast. Light becomes stark. Shadows sharpen into hard edges. You find yourself aware of every motion you make: the turn of your head, the shift of your balance, the rhythm of your breath. Nothing feels hidden. Not even from yourself.

There is no path, yet there is only one direction that feels possible: upward.

Near the summit, the wind stops entirely. The world below seems distant, muted, as though already sealed away. The peak itself is not jagged but flat, wide, and bare — a vast circular plane of black stone marked by a single pale ring etched into its surface, large enough to enclose a city.

From here you notice an old trail made from dirt, gravel, leading away from the mountain cutting through hills and forest. The air smells faintly of smoke, though nothing burns. As you walk, the road itself begins to change. Pebbles gleam like dull coals. Patches of dust glow faintly beneath your steps, fading after you pass. You leave no footprints — but faint prints appear ahead of you, as though someone walked this path seconds before you, always just out of sight.

Along the sides of the road stand objects that shouldn’t be there: a wooden chair facing the horizon, a crown half-buried in ash, a brazier filled not with flame, but with cold starlight, a mirror nailed to a tree, reflecting a sky full of stars even though dusk still lingers.

If you look too long at any of them, you understand something — not in words, but in a sudden, dizzying certainty. A memory about yourself. About what you ignored. About what is coming. The clarity feels like stepping off a ledge. The sky deepens toward night, but never arrives. Stars appear and one of them pulses red, low on the horizon.

Flames flicker and dance off the packs of weary travellers. A soft voice carries up into the night.

You never saw the turning,
You never felt the bend,
The path became a whisper
And you were walking it again.

Dusk would not surrender,
The sun forgot to fall,
And colors bruised the heavens
Like a warning over all.

Smoke without a fire,
Breath without a sound,
Your shadow stretched behind you
While the light lay on the ground.

Pebbles glowed like embers
Where your restless footsteps trod,
And prints appeared before you
Like the memory of a god.

Walk until the stars draw near,
Head beyond the edge of fear,
The path was never meant to guide
It only shows what waits inside.