Midnight in an Icelandic Lava Field "Under a sky thick with swirling northern lights, the blackened lava fields stretch endlessly in all directions. Steam rises in ghostly tendrils from fissures in the earth, carrying the scent of sulfur and something older, something forgotten. A lone wooden sign, its paint faded and peeling, stands at the edge of a winding path, pointing to nowhere in particular. In the distance, beyond the craggy horizon, a faint red glow pulses beneath the surface—slow, rhythmic, as if the land itself is breathing."