A hall of light closed by six mirrors
Strands of light hang in a hall mirrored on all six sides, so every one of them repeats away in every direction and there is no far anything — the walls are as bottomless as the floor, and where they meet the repetition folds into itself. Wander it. The strands swing as you pass, and the only place you appear is in the mirrors — a knot of light where your reflection stands, receding through the ceiling and the floor. Strike the lattice and the front comes back and shoves you as it goes by. One vast fluted rotunda stands off-centre, open at both ends and taller than the room, and its images set it out sideways into a colonnade with no end. The lattice thins where anything large is standing, so the big things are seen against the dark they make rather than lost in the weather — a beacon burning in its own clearing, a column climbing out of sight. Strike it and fire spreads along the avenues the eye can see, dying where they do. Once an arc something the size of a district enters through one wall with two smaller ones keeping station off its flanks, and leaves through the wall opposite. Once an arc the mirrors silver, and a pulse leaves through the reflections themselves — this room, then everything one bounce away, then everything two, into a depth that was always there and never bright enough to see. Once an arc the ceiling lifts clean away, the stacked images of it go, and for a minute this is not a hall of copies but one room with a very long way to the top. Stay an arc and the space climbs to a summit, goes out entirely, and lights itself again from a single point.