At the farthest reaches of the world's maps, in a place where day never changes, stretches Elyanor—the continent untouched by night, where shadows dare not rest upon its soil. There, light does not emerge from the sun alone, but from the earth, the breeze, even the very grasses themselves. The land pulses with a different rhythm, as if time there does not pass... but blossoms.
At its beginnings, the plains are bathed in a pale honey hue, and the grasses ripple as if swimming in praise of something unseen. The winds in those plains carry a gentle tune—not a familiar sound, but like the remembrance of an ancient dream.
Among those plains lies "Savril Land," where homes are built from glowing clay that smells of dew, and their roofs are made from wood that neither burns nor decays—taken from a tree that the plains alone sprout with each full moon's birth.
Here, people are known only by their first names, for those who live in the light need nothing more.
Each morning, the windows open not only for fresh air but for a sound that comes from afar—said to be the earth itself singing.
Then there are the "Valinor Farms," where sunlight breaks upon leaves as white as silver, and water flows through channels of green stone carved with precision worthy of legend.
Men in cotton robes plow the earth with plows made of crystal wood, pulled by a four-legged creature with half-transparent wings. It is neither struck nor led, but follows the farmer if it loves him.
In the corners of the fields, children play with spheres of light, tossing them into the sky where they glow and then fall as if created to amaze.
Mothers sing lullabies that are never taught, said to be passed from womb to womb.
To the north rise the "Myral Forests," whose trees never shed leaves but dissolve them into the air when their age is complete, releasing a scent that makes travelers forget all pain endured.
Those who spend the night beneath their shade dream of their beloved, no matter how far or long gone.
Among their trunks, round houses stand, inhabited by a people called "The Children of Glow"—not superior beings nor myths, but pure-blooded humans who know no lies, their foreheads lighting up when they laugh.
In the south, where light meets mist, the "White Mist Cities" float—cities built not on land but on solid clouds tethered by crystalline stakes to mountain peaks.
There, people walk on bridges of glowing glass and weave clothes from threads extracted from transparent eggs laid by silent birds that light up when saddened.
There is also the "Air Market," opened once every ten seasons, where artisans sell things visible only if loved: a box containing a memory, a bottle holding the sound of a first cry, gloves warming hands not by heat but by the scent of your mother in winter.
At the far west, near Elyanor's watery edges, lie the "Six Colors Harbors," where seas meet sails made of fire silk, and ships that do not sail but glide on the moonlight trapped in the waves.
The captains there do not navigate by compass, but by a small mirror reflecting the direction of the heart, not north.
At the center, where nothing repeats, the light pauses to stare. The land there is called the "Mirror Lands," its soil polished like solid water.
Whoever steps upon it sees themselves very small, or gigantic… or sees nothing at all, only hears: their voice as a child, their first mother's cry, and the name fate called them at creation.
Every corner of Elyanor holds an unwritten memory, and every land in it shines by its qualities, not by location. Nothing is fully said, but felt. People do not rush, nor fear danger, but they fear forgetting.
For Elyanor, with all its light, is not engraved on maps… but kept in the heart.
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Loriniel – The City of Glowing Mist
Dawn prepared to spill—not from the east, but from every direction—as if light no longer satisfied itself with a single path. In Loriniel, where walls are not built of stone but compressed dew, mist rose from valley bottoms like the breath of a creature asleep for centuries.
The clouds that carried the city were dense but revealed everything unseen before. Round balconies jutted from house edges, like glass chrysanthemums, opening onto an endless scene: a sky without a roof, and a soft mint-flavored breeze.
An old man named "Alyan," wearing a light cloak whose edges glowed like the edges of a dream, carried a small cage holding a creature like a bird, but with wings of crystal threads trembling with morning light. He passed a girl sitting on the doorstep of a house made from a frozen cloud trunk, singing a wordless song to life. When he smiled at her, a flower blossomed in her hand without being planted.
Across the invisible bridge between two towers, a group of women passed carrying baskets filled with "fruits of light"—a fruit growing on cloud peaks, tasting only when eaten in silence. Their feet made no sound, as if walking on echoes of a distant past.
In "Oryn Fall" square, the central plaza, craftsmen gathered as every morning, spreading out their tools: brushes of golden hair, stakes of leaning breeze, and small pieces of the previous day's sun frozen in glass jars.
One painted a picture showing nothing unless looked at after crying, another sculpted a statue from the shadow of someone no longer here.
The air was warm but not like fire's warmth—like the warmth of the first memory, unforgettable and unspoken.
Above them all, air birds passed as if they were pieces of a celestial ribbon, each emitting a different note, forming no melody except when flying together.
At the city's edge, by the cloud wall, three elders sat on seats of soft glass, watching with closed eyes. They spoke no words, but anyone passing by felt questioned… and answered.
Suddenly, the mist parted in a gap in the sky, and a slanting beam fell—not from the sun, but from something older.
Movement stopped. Songs froze. Even the birds fell silent.
Everyone in Loriniel lifted their heads, and no one spoke. No explanations were given or received.
But everyone understood.
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Sailiura — The City of Embodied Light
In Sailiura, there was no dawn or dusk. Time was not divided by the sun, but by the colors of light that changed like the notes of music in an old lover's ear.
Walking its alleys, you feel the ground listening to your feet. The tiles beneath you are not stone but shiny pages of a nameless material, reflecting your image not as you are, but as you once were… or might become.
In "Elyn Mira" market, vendors did not shout but whispered, for whispers in Sailiura could be heard clearly even across two walls.
A woman named "Naryl" sold baskets of solid dew, said to be collected at the first drop of the perfect season—when there is no wind or fog, only the first touch of dawn.
Nearby sat a blind man, drawing tiny carvings on a navy cloth. When asked, "How do you draw what you cannot see?" he replied calmly:
"Here, eyes are not needed… light passes through the heart first."
Through the square passed a young woman carrying a vessel full of "old sounds"—small glass bottles containing echoes of past laughter, forgotten prayers, or the flap of a wing never seen before.
A child followed, asking if he could buy "the first joyful cry from his mother." She stopped, searched among the bottles, and handed him one—without charge.
In the city center stood a tree that neither grew nor withered, but remembered. Its trunk was shiny black, and its long branches twisted like dreams at night.
People came to place their hands upon it, seeing what they had forgotten, hearing what they had lost, silently crying, then leaving… quieter than when they came.
At the "Alwain River," where water does not flow but floats on a layer of glowing pebbles, lovers sat holding hands, releasing sighs that turned the water into floating shards of gold.
It is said that whoever tastes this river sees their true face in the moon's reflection—not their current face, but the one chosen by stars at birth.
At the city's edge, under interwoven arches of light, children chased a small featureless creature called "Argwyn," a being that cannot be caught or told, but whose laughter makes anyone who hears it forget a moment of sadness.
When shadows fall—if shadows can be called that in a continent without darkness—the city returns to its stillness, not the stillness of sleep but the stillness of understanding.
The inhabitants of Sailiura do not stay awake because they are tired, nor do they sleep because they crave dreams, but because the light itself needs to close its eyes.
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The Villages of Halindar — Where Silence Speaks
Outside the great cities, among hills covered with soft grass that glows when touched, lie small villages known as "Halindar."
There, no paved roads exist—only paths opening to footsteps of pure intent. The houses are made of crystalline straw, reflecting sunset colors as if beating hearts.
An elder named "Morlan" sat before his hut, blowing into a silent musical instrument, yet the flowers danced and bees paused in midair, listening.
In the small square, a woman washed clothes that never got dirty but said:
"Washing here does not clean the fabric, but the memories stuck to it."
Children played without words, making circles of light around themselves and jumping inside. Each jump produced a faint humming, as if the air itself smiled.
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The Elmay Forest — Where Longing Dwells
In southern Elyanor lies a forest not dense with trees, but dense with memories. Known as "Elmay," it is said whoever enters does not return as they came, but laden with what they forgot.
The trees are not green but white as fog, with trunks resembling open books. Each leaf tells a story of those who passed through: a lost lover, a wizard who forgot his name, or a mother who lost her child before birth.
A girl named "Asilia" walked alone, but her steps were accompanied by other footsteps. No one was seen, but a presence was felt.
When she reached a hollow tree, she took out a small mirror and looked inside—her mother appeared as she was when Asilia was six.
She smiled, and all the light around bowed, as if the forest bowed in respect for this reunion.
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The Lorfin Lakes — Where Light Drinks Itself
In the heart of Elyanor lie lakes called "Lorfin," still and calm, but when you look into them, you see your face as it will be in a thousand years—or as it was before you were born.
A woman sat at the water's edge holding a small bottle. She dipped some lake water and whispered:
"I want to keep this tomorrow."
A child beside her asked:
"Can tomorrow be kept?"
She replied without turning:
"In Elyanor, everything is kept… because light never forgets."
Small boats made of shining leaves floated on the water's surface, with no passengers but candles. Each candle represents an unspoken wish, and each boat carries light from a heart still believing.
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Valindar Town — The City of Artisans Who Sculpt Light
Valindar is not a large city, but one of the rarest places in Elyanor. Here, nothing is bought or sold except if made of light itself.
The sculptors do not carve stone but shapes of light—they freeze it, color it, and make tools that glow only for those who deserve them.
A stranger wearing an ancient cloak entered the town. He stood before a craftsman and asked:
"Can you make a lantern that glows when I feel guilt?"
The craftsman looked at him without answering, took a lump of pure light, placed it on a crystal anvil, and began tapping it with a hammer of whispers.
When finished, he held a small lantern that pulsed whenever a feeling unspoken stirred in its owner's heart.
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Epilogue to Today's Scenes — Elianor Breathes
Elianor cannot be confined to a city, nor told in a single language. It is an ancient breath within the breast of the cosmos, lighting up when the world's lamps are extinguished.
Every patch tells a story, every shadow carries light, and every inhabitant does not merely live in it — they dwell within the light.
Thus, we move from scene to scene… not as mere spectators, but as those trying to grasp a language no longer written, only felt.
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Temple of Elianor — The Sanctuary of Silent Lights
In the stillness of the dense forest, where the sound of falling leaves scarcely breaks the silence of eternity, a faint glow emanates from afar — like the flicker of a faint star sneaking through the ancient translucent branches. The trees, tall and slender, resemble guardians of time; their nearly transparent leaves capture moonlight echoes and scatter them in ever-shifting hues dancing gently upon the ground.
The temple appears as a living entity, breathing with nature itself; its white stones sparkle softly under the glow of night stars, each stone carved with precision like breaths frozen in time. Between every engraving and decoration, secrets of light and shadow emerge, threads of an endless ancient tale.
On the floor, a vast mosaic unfolds, narrating tales of light and water, flowing beneath the temple's feet like a river of tranquil light, holding secrets of old continents and vanished stars. The more you gaze upon it, the more the stories seem to move slowly, whispering names long lost to memory.
The silence here is not emptiness, but a heavy presence, a different flavor almost audible among the stones. A gentle breeze strokes the edges of sheer curtains hanging between pillars, curtains that do not block the light but shape it into a quiet song.
Each temple pillar stands like a giant of light, tattooed with indecipherable verses that shimmer when touched by the first rays of dawn — symbols of life and light preserved on the threshold of eternity.
Here and there, shadows of a slender tree sway through a narrow window, painting mysterious and calm shapes on the floor, like drawings embodying life that never fades, memories breathing with every breath of the old wood mingled with the scent of rare flowers filling the air, spreading a serenity beyond words. Upon the cold floor, the first sunlight leaves a light dance shimmering through stained-glass windows, their colors entwined in a mosaic of light reflecting the earliest hues of dawn, as if telling stories of day's birth and life's pulse.
In the temple's corners, golden leaves from sacred trees scatter gently, like messages from the past whispered by the winds. No sound rises except the murmur of a small river flowing through a carefully carved stone channel, emitting an ancient watery melody embracing the place's ear, telling the tale of water that flows endlessly — cleansing, restoring, healing, and awakening dormant souls.
On one wall, an exquisitely carved relief depicts a colossal tree with roots plunging deep into the earth and branches embracing the sky, above which a dove of light soars — a symbol of peace and purity. This tree is not merely a symbol, but the very soul of the continent, alive within the temple's heart, weaving hope into the spirits of all who pass.
The air, where light meets shadow, flows softly, carrying a faint sound of old songs whispered by guardian spirits — singing tales of vanished heroes, unfulfilled dreams, and promises folded in time's folds.
In this sacred silence, the temple stands firm, witness to successive eras, a sanctuary for undying light, and a home for the secret waiting to be discovered between its shadows and the stone's breath.