An Isekai Story

Silverwood rises where the trees seem to listen and the stones hum with latent spells. Nestled on the edge of Aerthos, the city’s graceful towers curl like vines toward the heavens, wrapped in ivy and flickering with soft arcane light. This is a place where magic isn’t just practiced—it’s breathed. The city’s lifeblood flows through its grand academies, ancient libraries, and bustling component markets. Archmages govern from crystal halls, their decisions echoed through wards that resonate like chimes in the wind. Scroll-runners dash past lecturing golems, and dragonflies made of ink and intent flutter overhead. Silverwood imports the rare, the bizarre, the forgotten—books written in smoke, reagents distilled from starlight. What it sends back into the world are artifacts of immense power, arcane education, and the occasional student who can accidentally transmute a thunderstorm into poetry. All of it watched over by a council equal parts brilliance and ego.

Silverwood gleams like a dream half-remembered. White stone towers twist organically, shaped more by magic than chisel, their surfaces laced with gold-flecked ivy. Skybridges of floating crystal connect spires over waterfalls that spill into glowing canals. Lantern-lights drift unanchored in the air, illuminating moss-carved walkways and market stalls of shimmering cloth. From afar, the city glows with a quiet, opalescent pulse, as if breathing in magic and exhaling wonder.