---The wind changed as they approached Lila’s island. The metallic dust of Thorold’s forges was gone, replaced by a crisp, sterile air that smelled of ozone and crushed silica. The land rose in precise, terraced levels, not with the organic flow of Arinthal’s gardens, but with the sharp, efficient angles of engineered topography. Walls were smooth and seamless, watchtowers slender and tall, their surfaces reflecting the pale light of Hearth’s sun in dull, gunmetal grey.No one attacked them. No one hid.A delegation awaited them on a wide, flat quay of polished stone. At its head stood a mayor in a neat, charcoal-grey tunic. “Elder Lila awaits you at the command overlook,” he announced, his voice carefully neutral. “Please follow.”They were led up a switchback path wide enough for them to walk side-by-side. The settlement unfolded below—orderly, clean, and silent. No children played in the streets. No voices called from open windows. The only movement was the occasional soldier movi

The return to Skrul’s island was nothing like their first arrival. No panic, no soldiers emerging from the ferns with thorn-spears. A delegation awaited them on the shore—Skrul at its center, flanked by a dozen guards whose stance spoke of ceremony, not threat. The air was still, the usual sounds of the miniature forest muted.“You have returned with the final key,” Skrul said, his amplified voice carrying clearly. His eyes, deep-set and weary, moved from their ash-stained suits to the laden canoe. “Rest. Tomorrow, you will see the vessel.”They spent the night in the clearing where the cage had been. Lyra fell into an exhausted, dreamless sleep the moment she lay down. Stollen did not. His engineer’s mind was a whirl of partial schematics and alien composites. At first light, he was in the village’s main workshop, a vast, open-sided structure built to his scale, collaborating with a team of the island’s most brilliant miniature scientists.They

---The ship slid from the luminous conduit into a silence so profound it felt like a physical substance. Hearth Two hung before them, a world of stark, elegant contrasts. Continents were edged in permanent frost, yet vast geometric farmlands spread across temperate zones in patterns of impossible symmetry. Cities were clusters of slender, bone-white spires that pierced a lavender sky. There was no orbital debris, no satellite clutter—only a serene, curated stillness.“Scanners are picking us up,” Stollen murmured, hands moving over the unfamiliar Hearth-born console. “Not weapons. It’s… a frequency. Repeating. Like a chant.”A voice filled the cabin, harmonized by multiple tones, speaking in the flowing syllables of Hearth One’s language, but formalized, liturgical. “You who ascend from the Sacred Root… identify yourselves by the Ninth Sequence of Ascent.”Lyra shot Stollen a look. “What sequence?”“We don’t have one.” He opened the comm. “This is Stollen of Earth. We come in peace.

The air in Arin’s courtyard was cool and carried the scent of night-blooming flowers unknown on Hearth One. Elder Arin waited for them beside a still, reflective pool, his cream-colored robes blending with the pale stone. He was taller than the Arin they had known, his posture straighter, his face unlined by the weary grief that had haunted his duplicate below. His eyes held a disturbing serenity—the calm of deep, still water with no visible bottom. “Welcome, Unwritten Ones,” he said, his voice smooth, amplified just enough to reach them comfortably. It was Arin’s voice, but the warmth was replaced by a precise, neutral courtesy. “I am Arin, Keeper of Essence on this Contemplative Shore. Your progression from the Trial of the Body has been noted.” Lyra felt a pang of dislocation. This was the face that had wept in gratitude when they cleared an irrigation ditch. Now it regarded them with the detached interest of a scholar examining a rare insect. “Thank you for receiving us, Elder

Arinthal’s domain was a crown of crystal and light perched atop a solitary, slender mountain that rose from a sea of mist. Unlike Thorold’s rigid spires or Arin’s tranquil gardens, this place hummed with quiet, purposeful energy. Domes of translucent material housed arrays of delicate instruments that tracked the slow dance of the six smaller suns across the lavender sky. There were no guards, no walls—only the sheer drop and the thin, cold air.The ship settled on a landing platform that seemed to be grown rather than built, its surface smooth and warm. As the hatch opened, Arinthal emerged from the largest dome. He was as tall as the other Hearth Two natives, but his movements were fluid, economical. He wore simple grey trousers and a close-fitting tunic lined with fine data-fibers that glimmered as he moved. His expression was one of open curiosity, not doctrine.“Stollen. Lyra,” he said, his voice clear and needing no amplifier in the stillness. “And the seeker from the Root. Nath