At the center of the world lies the , an ancient, semi-sentient magical engine. Instead of weaving a coherent tapestry of time, the Loom randomly pulls in collapsing fragments of reality. This creates a highly fragmented geography:
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When she emerged, she found herself lying on the garden stone, the night sky above her unchanged, the rain having ceased. The stone she had held was gone; only a faint imprint of a tiny, iridescent scar marked the place where it had been. At the center of the world lies the