In the final year of the weaving, as Erdia’s dome settled into its full harmonic alignment, the sages set out to complete the last and most perilous task of the age: the raising of the Tower of the Sun upon the world’s outer rim. Only within the narrow window created by the moon‑spirit’s fully unfurled dome could such a crossing be made, and only with the tower’s guidance could Erdia sustain life during its long exile from Sol.
Reaching the site proved deadly. Many early expeditions vanished between worlds, lost to the dissonance between Terra’s failing leylines and Erdia’s newborn resonance. Of those who arrived safely, few ever returned. Yet by careful calibration—and at immense cost—the surviving sages established a foothold upon the tundra at the world’s edge and began construction.
The Tower of the Sun was unlike any structure raised before or after. Designed to focus the faint light of distant Sol into Erdia’s firmament, it also stabilised the orbit of the artificial sun—an arcane mechanism that would travel directly above the world, shifting only slightly north or south across its vertical equator, creating the cycle of seasons. Tilted eternally away from Sol, Erdia relied upon this crafted sun for heat and light until the age when its long wandering might return it to perihelion.
During these same years, the shattered remains of Lupa’s southern hemisphere—scattered into the void during the great bloom—coalesced slowly into a near‑perfect sphere. Some argued that this smoothing was the result of natural forces; others maintained that hidden hands guided its reshaping. Whatever the truth, the moon soon bore an uncanny regularity. Its phases, artificially generated by a secret arcane installation on its surface, never coincided with the position of the crafted sun. The two celestial bodies remained in perfect counterpoise, never sharing the same sky.
Little knowledge survives of how the first sages, the Tower’s builders, or the millions of Atlanteans made their passage once the tower was complete. Records fragment abruptly, as though the truth itself resisted inscription. Later ages speak only in possibilities: that the great spires of Atlantis tore free of their foundations and ascended into the night; that a colossal portal was opened, wide enough to carry legions; that engines of ancient design—half arcane, half harmonic—drove vessels through the void. None can be confirmed.
What is certain is that the crossing came at terrible cost. Of the millions who embarked from Atlantis, half perished—lost to the void, to misaligned harmonics, or to the chaotic energies of a dying Terra. The first travellers—the sages who built the Tower—vanished entirely from the surviving accounts. Only their work remained, and the certainty that, by their sacrifice, a path had been forged.
When the Tower of the Sun at last activated under the violet dome, Erdia’s great mechanism turned for the first time. Light gathered, spread, and settled across the newborn world. With that single act, the weaving ended, and a new world opened its sky to the remnants of the old.
