The wind climbs the cliffs before you do, cold and thin, carrying the scent of rain over stone. Below, the valley you left lies hidden under a rolling sea of cloud, while ahead the plateau rises like a broken altar against the sky. Your pack is light, your map older than your memory, and the name of this place — the Lost Plateau — feels like a warning spoken too late. Somewhere up there, according to the fading notes in your journal, lies the reason you came.

You pause at the first ridge, where black basalt juts from the earth in jagged steps and pale grasses shiver between cracks. A line of carved markers disappears into mist, each one worn smooth by weather and time. You can turn back to safer ground, follow the markers into the fog, or study the stones for clues before committing yourself. The plateau waits in silence, as if it has been expecting you for years.