Angels and gods, along with every race whose essence leaned toward light, beheld an unending, merciless noon.
Golden brilliance poured from everywhere and nowhere, saturating the air until it shimmered with heatless fire, illuminating every facet of existence with clinical clarity.
Devils, demons, fallen angels, and all those born of night perceived only the endless dark.
Stars glittered above them like scattered diamonds on black velvet, cold and watchful.
A soft, predatory moonlight bathed the plane, never bright enough to banish shadow, yet never dim enough to grant true rest.
The ground itself defied naming.
It was not stone, not metal, not crystal, only condensed reality, pressed and polished into seamless perfection.
When light kissed its surface, it answered with the quiet deference of a calm ocean at midnight: holding the glow of distant galaxies deep within, reflecting them back in gentle, liquid shimmers rather than harsh mirrors.
