The Temple of Bryn stands ruined in the foothills north of Belu Jenari, on the seam where the fire and light leylines press close together under the Sandreach. It was a sun-temple once, raised to Bryn: flames that never guttered, and at its heart an artificial sun built to burn day and night off the convergence below. The people who raised it gave Bryn the credit. The brilliance was the light leyline's, which grants a sun-priest nothing it would not grant a stranger, but that distinction died with the builders and so did nearly everything else they made.
The temple did not fall in a war or an age of slow decline. It was scoured. When Belu Jenari pushed up burning out of the desert floor, the fire side of the convergence surged past anything the seam had carried before, and it drove the crossing past its limit. The artificial sun over-expressed. The eternal flames ran wild and the structure that fed on them went with them, stone flash-burned to slag and glass in the span of the eruption. What the fire did not take, the light finished. Then the mountain drained back down and went quiet, and the convergence with it.
The light seam did not close. It came through the scouring raw and stripped of whatever the temple had done to hold it in check, live as ever and no longer tended. This is the danger of the place now. A light-shaper who comes within half a mile finds his workings will not stay the size he aims them. The light runs away the moment he calls it, so a glow meant to read by floods up into a flare that lights the whole hillside and blinds the one who raised it. The trained learn to work nothing at all here. On this ground a light-working pushed past its limit is not a risk that might come; the seam pushes it there every time.
The land carries the mark of how it ended. The foothills around the ruin are black glass and obsidian rubble where the sand fused, scarred with flash-burns that read like shadows printed into the stone, the outlines of walls and standing figures caught at the moment the temple burned. The creatures that have moved back wear the place too. The lizards that bask on the glass have gone mirror-bright down the back, scales that throw a flare off rather than drink it, and they hunt in the few seconds after a surge when everything else on the slope is dazzled blind.
No one now knows who raised the temple, or when. The fire and light crossing is older than any people the Sandreach keeps in memory, and the builders left only the dedication to Bryn and the shape of what they made. Whatever record the temple held of itself burned with the temple.
The convergence-anvil
Within the ruins stands the anvil where Dawnbringer was forged, a seam-fed crucible that came through the scouring whole when nothing around it did. At the height of the temple's power its smiths drew the fire and light of the convergence together and beat them into a single blade. The sword is no longer here. It was carried north after the scouring and rests now on the Dawnbringer Stone of the far northern coast, a long way from the seam that made it. The anvil stayed. It sits in the worst of the involuntary amplification, fed still by the live Kunus seam, wrapped in heat and a glare that climbs the longer anyone stands near it. The few who have reached for it were blinded before they could lay a hand on the stone.