I did not expect to begin writing daily.
But perhaps Miss DeLuna was correct.
Writing does reduce stress.
Otherwise I do not believe I could survive more than two days on this island without developing a permanent condition.
After breakfast this morning, Miss DeLuna offered to show me around the city properly.
Specifically, the four enormous structures I noticed from afar upon arrival.
They are the Council Halls.
Even from nearby, the scale feels excessive.
Not in height alone.
Presence.
Each building feels less like an office and more like an institution that expects to outlive kingdoms.
Miss DeLuna pointed toward the hall furthest to the right.
Soft silver banners hung from the upper terraces.
“That one belongs to Father’s council,” she explained casually.
Then she asked whether I wanted to visit and read the archives.
I declined with the survival instincts Daddy worked very hard to instill in me.
As we walked, I began noticing the scholar robes more clearly.
Nearly everyone on the island wears some variation of them.
Different colors.
Different insignias.
Miss DeLuna explained the meanings while pointing them out one by one.
Deep crimson for the Council of the Eternal Record.
Soft silver for the Council of Whispered Tales.
Deep teal for the Council of the Living Map.
Obsidian black for the Council of Veiled Truths.
Soft lavender for the Council of Echoed Hearts.
Gold threaded with silver for the Council of the Silver Thread.
And pale ash grey for the Council of the Fading Light.
Even the colors themselves sound academically dangerous.
Afterward, I realized something.
“There are seven councils,” I pointed out carefully.
“So why are there only four halls?”
Miss DeLuna answered immediately.
“The other three are below the island.”
“…Below?”
“In the crypt districts.”
She said this with the exact same tone people normally use to discuss weather.
I somehow understood instantly which councils would logically place themselves underground.
I decided not to ask further questions.
Unfortunately, Miss DeLuna then asked whether I wanted to visit them someday.
I informed her very clearly that I valued my continued mental stability.
She laughed.
Which did not reassure me at all.
Later, she decided to introduce me to the person who taught her writing.
I prepared myself mentally to meet some impossibly elegant High Elf scholar capable of speaking in philosophical metaphors for six consecutive hours.
Instead, Miss DeLuna brought me to a quiet lakeside clearing where an enormous tree stood beside the water.
A beautiful place.
Peaceful.
Silent.
I assumed we were waiting for someone.
Then the tree stood up.
I would like to formally state that this event nearly killed me.
I physically fell backward onto the ground while Miss DeLuna and the tree both started laughing like this was a long-established joke between them.
Apparently her writing mentor is an Elder Ent.
An actual Elder Ent.
A race I previously believed belonged exclusively to mythology and excessively expensive illustrated manuscripts.
He introduced himself slowly.
Warmly.
Like an old grandfather speaking to children.
He called Miss DeLuna “little one.”
And after she introduced me, he simply nodded and addressed me as “Ryn.”
His voice sounded strangely familiar somehow.
Slow.
Gentle.
Poetic.
And after speaking with him for some time, I realized why.
Miss DeLuna’s writing resembles him.
Not intentionally perhaps.
But the rhythm is there.
The pauses.
The way observations drift naturally into reflection.
Even the unsettling parts.
Afterward we continued wandering through the city.
Or perhaps “city” is no longer the correct word.
The island feels larger every day despite being geographically impossible.
I cannot explain this sensation properly.
The streets continue unfolding into more terraces, more halls, more gardens, more districts.
Either my perception is distorted.
Or the island itself does not fully obey ordinary spatial logic.
At this point, I consider both possibilities equally concerning.
What continues disturbing me most, however, is the complete absence of trade.
There are still no markets.
No merchants.
No negotiations.
And yet everyone carries food.
Books.
Supplies.
Everything people need simply exists around them somehow.
Finally, unable to tolerate this psychologically any longer, I directly asked Miss DeLuna where people obtain supplies.
“Oh,” she said casually.
“There are supply posts.”
Naturally.
She then showed me one.
An organized public storage hall built from pale stone.
Shelves neatly stocked with food, paper, tools, clothing, and household goods.
People entered calmly.
Took what they needed.
Left quietly.
No guards.
No money exchanged.
No records visibly checked.
There were attendants managing inventory, though Miss DeLuna admitted she was fairly certain the same families had simply handled supply distribution for generations.
Then I made the mistake of asking the obvious question.
“So…”
“How do people pay?”
Miss DeLuna blinked at me.
Thought for several seconds.
Then answered:
“Everything here is free.”
I genuinely felt my soul leave my body temporarily.
Even now, while writing this entry, I still cannot comprehend the economic structure of this island.
Or whether one actually exists.
I fear asking further questions.
Unfortunately, Miss DeLuna has now informed me she wishes to show me her favorite place on the island tomorrow.
Apparently it is quiet there.
And the view is beautiful.
Given my recent experiences, this information concerns me deeply.
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