A Tale of Two Settings

Two places shape my world more than any others:
the Veil and the Axis.
They are the quiet machinery behind every fracture in reality,
two halves of a single moment when everything began to separate.

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THE VEIL

The Veil is where the world forgets its outline.

A thin, unmapped space of fog and almost-forms,
where landscapes fade after a few hundred yards,
and the sky bends until it becomes a mirror.

It isn’t between worlds so much as the place
where worlds grow blurry at the edges —
a soft collision zone of memory, potential, and half-rendered ideas.

At its center sits something startlingly ordinary:
a small room called the Office.
A desk. A window. A stable thought held together
so a human mind can stand inside the storm
and take notes without dissolving.

The Veil doesn’t give answers.
It simply holds still long enough
for questions to take shape.

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THE AXIS

The Axis is not a tower.
It is the seam where reality first cracked.

The moment the undivided world split into more than one,
and that split froze into a shape long enough to become real.

Not stone.
Not metal.
A wound held open.
A perfect line of difference.

You can see the Axis from the Veil — a dark, impossible silhouette on the horizon —
but you cannot walk to it.
Distance is not measured in miles here,
but in understanding.

The Axis sharpens what the Veil softens.
It is the source behind every story,
the after-image of the explosion that made everything separate.

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TOGETHER

The Veil is the quiet field of possibility.
The Axis is the fault-line that gave it meaning.

The Veil shows you the edges of the world;
the Axis reveals why the world has edges at all.

One is soft.
One is absolute.
One is a question.
One is the answer the universe has been circling since the beginning.

Everything in my stories lives in the tension between them —
the fog where reality bends
and the seam where it was born.