The boundary between the alchemical threshold and the true domain of the God of Magic present itself as a violent fracture in the geometry of the cosmos. As the Void-Galleon sailed clear of the Scribe's broken basalt chamber, the stagnant silver currents disintegrated entirely, replaced by an endless, swirling sky of liquid emerald ink and heavy, suffocating parchment clouds. This was the absolute core of the Constellation of Arcana, a reality composed of floating obsidian towers, massive unrolled scrolls that served as highways, and millions of glowing green glyphs that drifted through the vacuum like incandescent locusts.
The moment the ship's prow crossed the threshold, the laws of orientation and momentum dissolved. Up and down became fluid concepts; left and right twisted inward. The Void-Galleon groaned as its timbers were suddenly subjected to a matrix of conflicting localized gravities, the hull drifting between vertical towers that stretched into infinity.
