Beneath the island, in the chamber the world above dared not dream existed, three figures knelt.
The chamber had no floor. What lay beneath them was merely the suggestion of one — a vast plane of polished obsidian that only pretended to be solid where the light deigned to touch it, dissolving elsewhere into a bottomless shimmer of molten gold.
There was no ceiling. No walls.
The place was not built of stone or some sort of spellcraft like it was shaped by attention itself — a Divine Essence given form only as a mercy to those still burdened with mortal flesh.
And at the far end of it — if "far" still held any meaning in such a realm — an Eye burned.
It did not merely watch. It was watching like it had always been watching, and it would always be watching.
The Eye filled the entire chamber, vast beyond reckoning, an endless oval of living, liquid gold so radiant at its edges that the light bled outward in slow, writhing tendrils of raw divinity.
