The afternoon sun cast long shadows across my study, illuminating dust motes that danced in the golden light. My old fingers traced the delicate lines on yellowed parchment—maps that had consumed my life's final chapter. At eighty-three, I found a certain poetry in completing what my ancestor had begun centuries ago.
"The Veiled Lands," I murmured, carefully inking in the final mountain range on the northeastern border of the Silent City. My hand wasn't as steady as it once was, but decades of cartographic work had given me a precision that even age couldn't entirely erode.
I leaned back in my chair, surveying my life's work with quiet satisfaction. The maps of the Veiled Lands—once fragmented, theoretical sketches in my ancestor's notebooks—now spread before me in glorious detail. Every valley, every strange formation, every anomaly carefully documented and explained with notations about the fluctuating nature of reality in those strange borderlands.
