There was an ancient, immovable quality about Ahamuji: it was not to be domesticated, and it was inevitable. For eras and dynasties, for centuries, emperors and warriors had strayed into the forest here, and been tangled up, and lost; battles had been fought here, Marks been founded and risen to eminence, and the forest had grown around them, and they’d become tangled up, and lost; cities had been built, and towers both raised and razed, ZarakGar and SharAmor, DuzakGar, the greatest buildings in the six directions, but they had been built here, in Ahamuji, and slowly over the millennia, the Sea of Trees had risen around them, until, eventually, the great Sharhir of the Eastern and the Western Lands would be tangled up in the branches of the trees, and overwhelmed, and lost.

Armies had vanished here. States had been engulfed. Ideas, temples, ships, laws, books, engulfed. This place, Zy felt, as the riders moved further into it, is entirely RezIsimgrian: it possesses the magic of endlessness, where space defeats time, so that time, in the end, stands still.

And in RezIsimgria, Zy remembered again, people disappear.

The North. The wilderness. The Sea of Trees. The wrong road, the wrong direction. Is that what is going to happen to us? Zy wondered. Are we, too, going to disappear?

Excerpt from Comb, Volume 8 of Dustless