The Celestial Garden of Oyathian Radiance was no ordinary sanctuary—it was a place where the sun never scorched, where the wind never howled, and where time moved at the unhurried pace of a sigh. The very air shimmered, not with heat, but with the golden haze of eternity, as if the realm itself exhaled light in soft, undulating waves.

Ilza walked barefoot along a winding path of silver-pearled stone, each step pressing against the cool, smooth surface as if the garden itself welcomed his touch. The grass that fringed the path was not mere green, but a living spectrum of soft hues—lavender, periwinkle, and moonlight blue—swelling and receding like the sea, swaying in rhythm with a melody no mortal ear could perceive. Flowers of unearthly colors bloomed in riotous clusters, petals spun from dusk and dawn, their fragrances shifting with the breath of the wind. He inhaled deeply, catching notes of crushed violets, spiced honey, and something indefinably sweet, like the memory of a lover’s whisper.

Above him, the sky was a vast canvas of gilded ivory, where the light wove itself into shifting patterns—sometimes celestial constellations, sometimes fluid calligraphy that told stories older than the first dawn. Wisps of clouds drifted lazily, too delicate to cast shadows, their edges tinged with rose-gold, as if kissed by some unseen hand. A few birds—if they could be called that—glided overhead, creatures of stardust and song, their iridescent wings dispersing faint echoes of laughter in their wake.

Ilza reached out idly, brushing his fingertips along a trailing vine of crystalline blossoms. They trembled at his touch, releasing a fine mist of silver pollen that caught the light like fractured diamonds. He tilted his head, watching the tiny motes dance before settling onto his skin, vanishing as if they had never been.

The garden welcomed solitude, yet it never allowed loneliness. It was peaceful. Somewhere, a harp played—soft, distant, its notes carried on the wind like the lingering memory of an embrace.