I am Heth, son of Thalion, a dweller of Nuahaven on the western shores of Aetheria, the land promised to us by Nua through the prophet Tanes. Now, in the autumn of my life, with grandchildren at my knee and the aches of many seasons in my bones, I take up this quill to record the adventure that defined my youth and, in ways I still ponder, the fate of our people. My hands tremble not from age alone but from the memory of that divine summons, a dream that propelled me eastward into the unknown. I write this not for glory, for I am but a vessel of Nua’s will, but so that the Silvrens may know the paths I trod and the wonders I beheld, that our harmony under the three moons—Luneth’s pale serenity, Sylvara’s silver grace, and Korath’s crimson resolve—may endure.
It was in the bloom of my twenty-third year, when Solara’s light still danced freely upon my unscarred skin, that Nua spoke to me. I had been a simple craftsman then, shaping wood from the broad-leafed groves into homes that echoed the sturdy halls of our forebears. Nuahaven thrived in those days, our people united by the Covenant of Nuahaven, inscribed upon stone as a mirror to Galoth’s ancient tablets. We honored the sacred trinity—syren, female, male in ordained sequence—shunning discord and misbond, extending mercy even to the rare Discordants among us. The shadows of Boana lurked, but Nua’s light held them at bay.
That night, under Luneth’s gentle watch, sleep claimed me in my modest dwelling. But it was no ordinary slumber. A voice, resonant as a geyser’s rumble yet vast as the Titan Spires’ heights, filled my mind. “Heth,” it called, and I knew it was the Eternal Shaper, for no mortal tone could carry such depth. “The giants need your treasure. The Silvrens need your measure. Go east. Leave this very night. Take only the clothes on your back. Do not return until you see the blue.”
I awoke with a start, my heart pounding like the roar of a Spikecrest in the ridges. The words echoed in my soul, unyielding and true. What treasure did I possess? I was no elder, no prophet like Tanes. Yet, in my youth’s fervor, I believed it must be the faith of our people—the Covenant, the teachings of Galoth passed down through The Chronicle of Elyria. Surely, the giants, those ancient builders of the Titan Spires whose wisdom had faded into legend, hungered for Nua’s harmony. Perhaps remnants of their kind lingered in the east, their eyes dimmed by opposition, awaiting the light of our ways. That, I reasoned, was the treasure they needed.
As for the Silvrens needing my measure, it puzzled me, but I took it as a call to chart the unknown expanses of Aetheria. Our people, ever expanding from Nuahaven’s western shores, whispered of vast plains and ridges beyond the Titan Spires. To measure the land’s breadth would aid our kin, revealing paths for growth while upholding unity.
And the blue? Ah, that seemed clearest. The Azure Veil, whose depths mirrored the eyes of our forebears like Lira of old, lay to the west whence we came. But legends spoke of its eastern counterpart, encircling Aetheria’s far side. To see the blue must mean crossing the continent entire, gazing upon that distant sea. Thus, I interpreted Nua’s command, my spirit ignited by purpose.
With the moons still high, I rose, clad only in my nightshirt, the thin fabric clinging to my skin in the cool air. Nua’s words rang clear: “Take only the clothes on your back.” But doubt crept in as I glanced at my tunic and breeches folded neatly nearby. Nuahaven was not yet asleep; lanterns flickered in distant windows, and the path eastward wound through scattered homesteads before reaching the wilds. To stride through the village in naught but a nightshirt would draw stares and whispers—silly, perhaps even scandalous. Would Nua demand such humiliation? The command was urgent, but dressing took mere moments. Surely, the Shaper meant not to expose me to ridicule but to travel unburdened, free of possessions. I debated fiercely in my mind: obedience literal or in spirit? Yet faith steeled me—Nua had parted lands and slain giants for our people; she would guide my steps.
In the end, I donned my simple tunic, breeches, and sturdy boots, reasoning that Nua’s will was haste, not folly. With a final glance at my home, I slipped into the night, eastward bound. It was spring then, the air alive with the scent of blooming tart-fruits and the first calls of Skydrakes awakening in the cliffs. The moons guided my steps through Nuahaven’s outskirts, past orchards where fresh buds hung heavy and groves where Hexapods stirred in slumber. The path eastward was well-trod at first, winding through settlements that had sprouted since the Covenant—farmsteads and trappers’ huts dotting the plains before the Titan Spires loomed in the distance. Solara rose as I walked, her light warming the land, and by midday, fatigue tugged at my limbs. I had eaten nothing, carried no water, true to Nua’s word beyond my attire.
Toward evening, as Korath’s crimson began to tint the sky, I approached a solitary hut on the edge of the wilderness, smoke curling from its chimney. A trapper’s abode, ringed by snares and drying pelts of Velithons and smaller hexapods. The man himself, a weathered syren with a beard like tangled vines, emerged as I neared, his eyes narrowing in curiosity.
“Well met, traveler,” he called, leaning on a staff carved from broad-leafed wood. “You have the look of Nuahaven about you—those steady strides, the valley’s mark. What’s your name, lad? And what brings one so young this far east without pack or provision?”
I hesitated, Nua’s command fresh in my mind, but his gaze was kind, and weariness weighed heavy. “I am Heth, son of Thalion,” I replied. “From Nuahaven, yes. Just… passing through.”
He chuckled, a deep rumble like distant geysers. “Passing through, eh? Without so much as a waterskin? Come now, Heth—must be one of Thalion’s kin, with that craftsman’s build. I’m Rylor, trapper of these fringes. News from Nuahaven is scarce out here. The Covenant holds? Any word of fresh skirmishes with beasts or shadows?”
His questions flowed like a stream, and before I knew it, he had guided me to his firepit, a pot of stew bubbling over flames. “Sit, lad. You look half-starved. Share now, and tell an old syren what’s stirring in the heartlands.”
The aroma of Velithon stew weakened my resolve. Nua had said to leave that night, but not to shun aid along the way. I sat, accepting a bowl gratefully. “The Covenant endures,” I began, recounting recent feasts under Sylvara’s light, the births honoring the trinity, and whispers of expansion eastward. Rylor nodded, his eyes alight with interest.
“Ah, good to hear harmony prevails. But you, Heth—what drags you out here alone, without gear? Running from something? Or to?”
I paused, spoon midway to my mouth. The dream felt private, sacred, yet his earnest face coaxed the truth. “Not running, Rylor. Called. Nua spoke to me in a dream last night. ‘The giants need your treasure. The Silvrens need your measure. Go east. Leave this very night. Take only the clothes on your back. Do not return until you see the blue.'”
Rylor’s eyes widened, his beard twitching in surprise. “Nua herself? A dream like Tanes’s visions? Lad, that’s no light matter. But east? Into the wilds, with naught but faith? The Titan Spires hold perils—quicksand, Spikecrests, and who knows what beyond. You’re not equipped for such folly.”
“I know,” I admitted, my voice faltering. “But the Shaper’s command was clear. The treasure must be our faith—the Covenant to share with giants’ remnants. The measure, perhaps charting Aetheria’s breadth. The blue… the far eastern sea.”
Rylor leaned back, stroking his beard thoughtfully. “Giants’ remnants? Legends, maybe. And faith’s a fine treasure, but you’ll die of thirst before sharing it. Nua guides, but she doesn’t demand suicide. Stay the night, Heth. Rest. I’ll outfit you proper—waterskin, knife, cloak against the chill. A good breakfast in the morning, and you’ll be off with Nua’s blessing still.”
I protested weakly. “The command was to leave that night, take nothing…”
“Aye, but you’re here now, and Nua sent you to my door for a reason. Think on it—harmony includes mercy, even to oneself. Sleep on it, lad. No harm in one night.”
His words swayed me, fatigue and the warmth of the fire sealing the decision. I nodded, and Rylor showed me to a pallet by the hearth. Sleep came swiftly, dreams flickering with eastern horizons.
Come dawn, Rylor roused me with the scent of fresh bread and eggs from hexapod nests. “Eat hearty,” he said, pressing a pack into my hands—waterskin, dried meats, a sturdy knife, and a cloak woven from Velithon hide. “Nua’s path is yours, Heth, but go prepared. May the three moons light your way.”
I thanked him profusely, guilt mingling with gratitude. “You’ve bent Nua’s words, but perhaps for the best. I’ll honor this aid.”
Rylor clasped my shoulder. “Words are guides, not chains. Return one day with tales of the blue, and we’ll share a stew again.”
With that, I departed eastward, the pack light on my back, the wilderness calling. Little did I know how far that path would lead, nor the companions it would draw, but in that moment, I was Heth, the wanderer, bound by divine decree, seeking the blue that would call me home.
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