Novels by SPK

The sea after Claira’s island did not calm; it thickened. A fine, grey dust began to fall from a cloudless sky, coating their canoe, their supplies, their skin. It wasn’t snow or ash, but something mineral and dry. It smelled of ozone and burnt stone.“Volcanic,” Stollen said, wiping a grey streak from his visor. His suit’s external sensors, glitchy but functional, chirped a weak warning. PARTICULATE MATTER: HIGH. COMPOSITION: SILICATES, ALLOY RESIDUE.“Not volcanic,” Nathe corrected quietly from the bow. He caught a few grains on his fingertip, rubbing them together. “Smelter discharge. Thorold’s forges. They never stop. They burn day and night. This is what falls downwind.”Lyra stared at the hazy outline of the approaching landmass. It wasn’t green, or grey, or any natural color. It was a landscape of scorched umber and rust-red, scarred by geometric lines—roads, trenches, massive cleared zones. Watchtowers, skeletal and tall even from their distant perspective, stood silhouetted a

---The sea route to Claira’s island was marked by a gradual draining of color and sound. The luminous turquoise of Arinthal’s waters faded to a dull, iron gray. The sweet floral scent vanished, replaced by a briny, metallic tang. The cheerful cries of tiny seabirds ceased. The only sound was the slap of water against their canoe’s living hull-fins and the low, constant sigh of wind through rocky channels.Claira’s land rose from the sea not as sloping beaches or glowing terraces, but as sheer cliffs of dark, striated stone. There were no welcoming docks, no paths, no signs of habitation. But as they paddled closer, Stollen’s trained eye picked out the geometric regularity of slit-like openings in the cliff face. Not caves—embrasures. Arrow slits. Watch posts.“They’ve been tracking us since we rounded the headland,” Lyra said quietly, her hand resting near her belt where a tool could become a weapon.Nathe, who had been hunched in the bow since they left Arinthal’s serene lights, did

The sea changed color as they paddled closer to Arinthal’s land. The water shifted from deep blue to a clear, luminous turquoise, and the air grew noticeably cooler, carrying a sweet, floral scent. The island itself rose from the water not as a jagged coast, but as a series of graceful, terraced slopes covered in vegetation that glowed with a soft, internal light.“It’s like someone decorated an island with neon,” Lyra murmured, her paddle dipping silently.Stollen’s eyes were on the structures nestled among the glowing trees. They weren’t built; they appeared grown—curving walls of seamless, polished material that flowed into arched doorways, roofs that were living canopies of bioluminescent leaves. To their giant scale, it was an exq

The temple felt different in the morning light. The painted worlds on the wall seemed less like myth and more like a puzzle waiting to be read. Stollen ran his fingers along the edge of the mural, where the composite symbol—a series of interlocking hexagons—was drawn.“Here,” he said, pointing to faint, almost invisible lines radiating from the symbol. “These aren’t decoration. They’re directional markers. Old surveying marks.”Arin stood beside him, wringing his hands. “The ancient elders… they marked the sacred sites. We were forbidden to go. The materials were to be kept for… for you.”Lyra studied the lines. “Forbidden by who?”“By tradition,” Arin whispered. “By fear.”Nathe, who had been examining the f

The journey from Eira’s militarized ridges to Arin’s land took several hours of steady walking. The terrain shifted from sharp, needled trees to rolling, patchwork hills. From a high pass, Stollen and Lyra looked down at what the map called a “continent.”To them, it was an island perhaps ten miles across. Fields spread in quilted squares, but many were fallow or choked with weeds. The settlements they could see were clusters of simple, thatched huts—no watchtowers, no forges smoking, no high-tech vehicles.“A ‘continent’,” Lyra said, her voice flat. “It’s smaller than some lakes back home.”“Scale is everything here,” Stollen replied, his eyes scanning. “To a two-inch tall person, ten miles might as well be a planet. But… look at the fields. The soil’s thin. Eroded.”

The river shallows gave way to gravel, then to soil. With each step onto Eira’s land, the air grew colder, the wind sharper. The trees here weren’t the broad-leafed giants of Skrul’s forest; they were needled, dense, and dark, clustered like bristles on a brush.They made camp just beyond the tree line, using the wagon as a windbreak. Lyra stared into the gathering dusk. “Skrul wasn’t kidding. This place doesn’t just feel unwelcoming. It feels… policed.”Stollen scanned the shadows between the trunks. “We just need to cross. Get to Arin’s land, get the composites, and keep moving. Stay sharp tonight.”They ate the last of the travel bread—a few dry crumbs that did nothing for the hollow ache in their stomachs—and settled in. The silence was profound. No insect hum, no distant animal calls. Just the sigh of the wind.