It began with the night sky. I kept thinking about how every old faith looked upward and saw another world looking back. The stars were never just lights; they were destinations, heavens, memories of the dead. That idea took hold of me. If the sky was a map, maybe the world beneath it could be drawn from the same design. You can see that logic sketched into the atlas where stellar geometry becomes coastline and border.

I started tracing constellations, turning their patterns into a geography that could be walked and lived in. The stars became cities, the constellations became nations, and their myths began to shape the land itself. What began as astronomy turned into a kind of theology. Each border, each terrain feature, each cultural habit found its logic in the pattern above it.

As I kept mapping, the spaces between constellations began to matter more than the constellations themselves. Those gaps suggested another layer: a mirrored world, inverted and unseen. That inversion became Mortum Caelum, the land of the dead, the first heaven.

The night sky, once only a map of light, became a map of consequence. In it lies a question that the book itself must answer: who among the living finds their way to that other realm, and under what law of heaven they are received. The answer shifts with every calendar and ritual, which is why I keep folding this framework together with the timekeeping riddles in Temporal Mechanics.