Erza reached the edge.
The white land dropped away into nothing, a void, an abyss, a place where even memory feared to tread. The emptiness stretched below her, dark and cold and infinite, a vastness that seemed to swallow light and sound and hope itself. There was no bottom that she could see, no end to the darkness, no promise that anything existed beneath except more darkness. The air around her grew still, heavy with the weight of standing at the precipice of something vast and unknowable.
But she looked down.
And she paused.
Because what she saw was beyond her understanding.
The white abyss was gone.
Gone as if it had never existed. Gone as if the darkness had been a lie, a trick of the light, a shadow cast by something that was not there. In its place, spreading from horizon to horizon, covering the depths of the void like a blanket of silk thrown upon stone, was a field of flowers.
Flowers with no ending.
