When he finally stepped back, the image was perfect. It felt as though you could reach out and touch the cold stone or breathe in the thin, crisp air.

"The Monastery’s Grace," Elian said. "A gift for those who cannot climb the mountain themselves."

Brother Elian didn’t mind the isolation. In fact, he’d spent the last twenty years perfecting a single view. He sat before the Great Arched Window, the very one that looked out over the sea of clouds and the floating spires of the lower valley. "Is it ready?" a young initiate whispered from the doorway.

Elian smiled, thinking of the tired souls in the world of glass boxes who would one day see his home and find a moment of stillness.

The wind howled through the jagged peaks of the Iron Mountains, but inside the Monastery of the Azure Mist, there was only the sound of a single brush scratching against parchment.