It was an unusually warm April morning when Oliver stumbled upon the letter. The address, scribbled in a handwriting he didn't recognize, read "Oliver, 1272 Lusterye." The 'Lusterye' seemed odd; it was a name he hadn't associated with any place he knew. Curiosity piqued, Oliver opened the letter.
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Oliver nodded, looking out over the sprawling, shifting landscapes of the realm. Down below, the colors of the world bled into one another—violet rivers running through emerald deserts. This was a place where imagination was the only map. It was an unusually warm April morning when
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