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# Waverider Expedition - Solanthar

More perfection than is good

The jungle ended in a wall of light.

The river widened, the trees fell back, and before them rose the cliffs of Solanthar, white and sheer, streaked with waterfalls that caught the sun like molten gold. Mist curled upward in shimmering veils. For a long time, no one spoke.

Phaedros was the first to breathe again. "I used to think the stories exaggerated," he said.

Severin shaded his eyes. "They didn't."

Their longboat drifted closer to the base of the plateau. The air grew cooler, the sound of the falls a steady thunder. Then, through the mist, a shape appeared: a narrow pier of carved stone, polished smooth by time. Upon it stood a single figure, pale against the blinding white of the cliffs.

He didn't shout. His voice carried over the water as if the air itself bore his words. "Travelers of the low world. You trespass upon the radiance of Solanthar."

Severin raised a hand in greeting. "We seek trade, not trespass."

The elf tilted his head slightly, as though considering the words' weight. "Then be judged in the light."

He turned, and without another word, began to climb a stair carved into the stone.

The Steps of Thalarion wound upward like a scar. The three men followed, the river shrinking below them until it was no more than a glint of silver between the trees.

Phaedros climbed in silence, eyes wide as they passed bridges of marble and gardens clinging to impossible ledges. Every flower seemed arranged by an invisible hand; even the wind smelled clean, touched by sun-warmed blossoms.

"It's beautiful," he murmured.

"It's unnatural," Decimus grunted, wiping sweat from his brow. "No world should look this clean."

At the final turn, the stair opened onto a terrace that seemed to float above the clouds. There, beneath an arch of gold-veined stone, waited a woman in radiant armor. Her movements were precise, almost choreographed, and her eyes reflected the sky itself.

"I am Selirath Vehlorien," she said. "Aurenspear of Solanthar. You have climbed far, strangers. For what purpose?"

Severin stepped forward. "We need lenses, crystal, cut with your precision. Our ship's instruments were damaged. We'll pay in silver, or maps of the southern seas."

Selirath studied him for a moment, then smiled, a small, perfect thing without warmth. "We do not measure worth in metal, nor in exploration. The sun does not bargain with shadow."

Phaedros unrolled a map from his satchel. Salt-stained parchment, patched with ink and care, the Waverider's record of every shore and storm they'd seen. He placed it before her like an offering.

"Then trade with this," he said softly. "The mark of imperfection chasing perfection."

Selirath's gaze lingered on the map. She reached out, touched the frayed edge with a finger, and for the briefest moment her expression changed... something like sorrow, or envy.

"A flawed reflection," she whispered. "Yet even the sun casts shadows."

She turned to her attendants. "Bring them what they came for."

The hall they entered was a cathedral of light. Mirrors lined the walls, reflecting the sunlight into shifting rainbows. Statues of radiant elves lined the floor, their faces serene and empty.

A servant brought forth a small chest of pale wood, its hinges golden. Inside, wrapped in silk, lay the lenses - clear as still water, sharp as ice.

Severin bowed slightly. "We're grateful."

Selirath inclined her head. "Then carry your imperfection well. It gives the sun something to pity."

They were led back toward the stair by a younger elf, silent and graceful. As they crossed a high bridge, Decimus slowed. Far below, a procession wound along the edge of another terrace, white-robed figures, walking two by two.

At their center was a man bound with golden cords. His head was bowed. When they reached the cliff's rim, he did not struggle. He simply stepped into the light, and was gone.

Decimus stopped dead. "What was his crime?"

Their guide didn't turn. "He failed to perfect his art."

The soldier's jaw tightened, but he said nothing. Phaedros looked pale. Severin's eyes were unreadable.

By the time they reached the river again, the sun was sinking behind the plateau. The cliffs burned crimson, the waterfalls turned to blood and fire.

No one spoke until they had pushed the longboat into the current and the sound of the falls faded behind them.

Phaedros broke the silence first. "I've never seen beauty like that."

Decimus snorted softly. "You've never seen madness so polished."

"Maybe both," Severin said quietly, watching the last light fade from the cliffs. "Sometimes perfection just means forgetting what mercy looks like."

The river carried them back into the shadow of the jungle. The air grew warmer, the scent of earth returned, and the glow of Solantharion dwindled above the mist, a beacon of light too bright for mortal eyes, shining on, serene and terrible, over a world that would never be perfect enough for it.

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