Dawn broke over the prairie, Solara’s light filtering through the mist like a veil lifting from the land. Lirael and I broke camp swiftly, her hands deft as she rolled our cloaks, mending a loose thread with a quick stitch. The patch of woods ahead loomed darker than the open grasses we’d crossed, its canopy thick with broad-leafed branches that whispered secrets in the breeze. We pondered our path, the narrow trail vanishing into the shadows.
“Should we skirt around?” I mused, eyeing the dense growth. “The prairie curves north; we could circle back to the trail beyond.”
Lirael shook her head, her long hair swaying. “It would add days, Heth. And who carved this path? Trappers, perhaps, seeking hexapod pelts?”
I nodded, squinting at the trail’s worn earth. “Likely. But I hope it’s not Gloomtreads—or some unknown beast lurking in Aetheria’s depths. Finding east is simple enough—every young Nuahavender learns the shadows point north at noon under Solara’s zenith. This trail holds true so far, but what if we lose it? I’ve heard trappers speak of following animal trails, faint as whispers, or tracing rivers that wind like veins. Without a trail, we’d need such knowledge. I wish we’d a trapper with us, one versed in the wild’s signs.”
Lirael glanced back. “We’ll manage, Heth. Nua guides us.”
Still, going around felt like retreat. “Nua bids east; we’ll go through,” I decided.
She agreed, and we plunged in, the woods closing around us like a living thing. The air grew cooler, dappled light playing on the ground where roots twisted like veins. Single file, Lirael led, her smaller frame navigating the path with ease. But soon, a sense of being watched prickled my neck. Rustling came from above, branches creaking as if something heavy shifted. Then to the left, a snap of twigs. We froze, hearts pounding.
“Hide,” I whispered, pulling her behind a fallen log. We waited, breath held, as the sounds faded. “What was that? A hexapod, too large for these branches?”
Lirael peered out, her eyes scanning the canopy. “No hexapod moves so slyly. Could it be… Boana’s shadow, like in the Chronicle? The Boa Worms twisted Elyria’s heart—perhaps they linger here.”
I shivered, recalling Galoth’s tales of worms born from the dead. “Boana’s unseen, but her influence creeps. Maybe a beast, warped by opposition?”
We pressed on, but the stalking grew bolder. To the right, leaves shuddered; then overhead, a shadow flitted through the canopy. A nut fell, striking my shoulder, making me jump. “Just the wind?” I muttered, unconvinced. Lirael pointed to a silhouette in the branches—a head, perhaps, with jagged edges—but it vanished before we could be sure. “Did you see that?” she whispered.
“I… maybe. A trick of the light?” My voice lacked conviction.
We ducked into thick bushes at the next rustle, thorns snagging Lirael’s dress. A branch snapped above, showering us with leaves. “It’s tracking us,” I hissed. “Not a Gloomtread—their steps would shake the earth. Something lighter, cunning. Like Tanes’s tales of spirits in the wilds?”
Lirael’s eyes widened. “The Chronicle speaks of shadows born from discord. Could it be a Discordant, feral and twisted?”
We crept forward, the trail leading to a small stream, its waters gurgling like whispered secrets. As we forded it, cold biting our ankles, a ripple broke the surface downstream—something emerging, sleek and dark, before sinking back. “Did you see that?” I gasped.
Lirael nodded, clutching her cloak. “Something lives in these waters. Not a Velithon—too swift. Another of Boana’s tricks?”
We scrambled up the bank, hearts racing, and hid behind a steep earthen rise when rustling resumed to the right. Pebbles trickled down, as if dislodged above. “It’s circling,” I whispered. “Boana’s worms, or worse? The Chronicle warns of unseen foes.”
Lirael’s voice trembled. “We should turn back, Heth. This feels like opposition itself.”
I shook my head. “No. If we retreat now, we’ll falter at every shadow. Nua’s path is forward; we can’t build the habit of turning around once chosen.”
She sighed but nodded, and we continued as night fell, the woods darkening like a shroud under Luneth’s pale glow. A flicker of fire ahead drew us—a small clearing where a young syren sat close to the flames, his form wild and rugged. He was about our age, with short curly hair matted like tangled vines, clad in ragged leathers that barely covered his muscular frame, his feet bare and calloused. Ruggedly handsome, his eyes wild but his face clean with a strong, handsome jaw, he exuded a primal vitality, too masculine for a syren yet striking in his presence.
He glanced up as we approached, his voice gruff but welcoming. “Strangers in the woods? Well met. I’m Varyn. Come, share the fire—I’ve Velithon roasting, fresh from the snare.”
We hesitated, then joined him, the meat’s aroma overpowering caution. “Heth,” I said, “and Lirael. We’re eastward bound on Nua’s call—a dream commanding me to seek the blue, sharing our faith with giants’ kin, measuring Aetheria’s span.”
Varyn nodded, turning the spit. “Bold venture. Me? I’m out here fending alone. Civilization chokes me—Nuahaven’s crowds, the endless rules of the Covenant. I tried it as a youth, apprenticed to craftsmen, but the walls closed in. Traveled with trappers once, learning snares and tracks, but even they bickered over shares. Realized I was happier wild, hunting solo, sleeping under the moons. No one to answer to, no discord in solitude. The woods provide—better than any village feast.”
Lirael leaned forward. “But the dangers? Gloomtreads, beasts?”
Varyn grinned, his teeth flashing in the firelight. “Dangers build strength. That rustling stalking you? Trappers’ secret—a Discordant gone feral, wild as a hexapod but cunning. Guards these woods; even Gloomtreads fear it, keeping clear. Favorite spot for us loners.”
“And Gloomtreads?” I asked. “You’ve faced them?”
He laughed, pulling a sack from the shadows. “One trailed me yesterday. Slipped into bushes, climbed a tree, waited till it passed below. Knife to the back of the neck—clean kill.” Seeing our skepticism, he hoisted the sack and dumped out a Gloomtread’s severed head, its brutish features frozen in surprise, holding it up with one hand like a trophy.
I recoiled, stomach turning at the grisly sight. Lirael, though pale, whispered to me, “Another provision, Heth.” I understood—his wild strength could guard us eastward. He was the trapper I had carelessly wished for, versed in the wild’s ways, but somehow better—a syren whose ferocity matched the woods themselves.
We raised the question as the fire died. “Varyn, join us east? Your skills would aid Nua’s call.”
He accepted swiftly, eyes alight. “East? Dared dream it, but alone it’s folly. These woods I know, but beyond? With company, aye. Let’s see the blue together.”
We camped by his fire, the woods’ whispers fading, our trio formed under the three moons. As I lay on my pallet, staring at the stars peeking through the canopy, a profound thought stirred within me. Here we were—a male, a female, and a syren—bound not for procreation’s sacred sequence, but for some greater purpose veiled in Nua’s command. Lirael with her mending wisdom, Varyn with his feral strength, and I, the dreamer called eastward. No union of flesh, yet a trinity of spirit, mirroring the three moons above: Luneth’s serenity in our questions, Sylvara’s grace in our companionship, Korath’s resolve in our forward march.
It echoed our discussions—the triangle’s strength, three points unyielding where two would falter. As in the elders’ theory, our trio braced against the wilds, each upholding the others. And the threes abounded: Hexapods in triads, Skydrakes circling in threes, even the Gloomtreads’ fall from slaying their syrens, breaking the sacred three. Nua’s grand design wove through it all, her infinite insight turning chance meetings into purpose. What greater harmony could there be? We were not lovers, but kin in quest, a reflection of the Shaper’s eternal balance. Sleep claimed me then, wonder lingering like the moons’ light.
spikosauropod 