Fantasy
The basalt palace of Ignis-Rahl did not sit upon the volcano; it was carved into its very throat. Outside, the world was a jagged wasteland of obsidian, but inside the Throne of Embers, the air was a thick, grey soup. Ash drifted from the ceiling like cursed snow, coating the velvet tapestries and the lungs of the few who remained.
The crystal islands drifted in their slow, obedient ellipses around the sun, and I drifted with them, a small note held in a vast throat of light. From the bridges of glass that braided one island to the next, I could hear the sun breathing—each exhalation a reddening sigh, each inhalation thinner than the last. The air tasted of metal and honey, warmed until it hummed against the tongue. When I closed my eyes, the light pressed violet through my lids, and the old songs rose unbidden in my chest.
The ember‑lit guild hall thrummed with life, its vaulted ceiling a lattice of iron ribs that caught the glow of countless looms. Each loom stood like a patient beast, its wooden frame blackened by years of heat, its spindle wheels turning in a steady, hypnotic rhythm. The air was thick with the scent of hot coal and freshly spun wool, a warm perfume that clung to skin and lingered in the breath of every apprentice who passed through the great doors.