A trunk rises straight from the smooth ground and divides into equal limbs, each limb into the same number of smaller ones, at the same angle, down to twigs too fine to see, so that the crown is a perfect rounded lattice. Bark and leaf are gold, white, or silver, so saturated they seem to vibrate. Under the plane’s even light the trees cast no shadow. They are cool and smooth to the touch, like polished stone, and have no scent. They make no sound in any breeze, and stand in rows and groves spaced as evenly as the trees themselves.

They grow wherever the Apex has land, on its domed hills and beside its mathematically curving rivers. Every grove looks like every other.

Nothing about them can be changed. A blade set to the bark does not cut it; a broken twig is mended before the hand has closed on it, as the plane corrects every change back to its perfect state. They do not grow, shed, flower, or age.

They offer no wood and no fruit, and harm no one. Their danger, if any, is the plane’s: travellers who sit too long admiring a grove are among those who never leave.

Travellers' accounts of the Apex are rare, and the trees appear in them as proof of its perfection or of its deadness, depending on who is telling. Mystics who carve fractal branching into shrines say they copy the trees of a higher heaven, and those who have been there say the copies are better, because they have a flaw.