Ocular Astra Journeys: The Seven Hearth

CHAPTER 5: THE ISLAND OF FEAR

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.

Lyra’s eyes snapped open hours later, her nose burning with the acrid stench of oil. Before she could shout, orange light bloomed. Their makeshift shelter, woven from reeds and branches, was engulfed in flames.

“Out!” Stollen roared, scrambling backward.

They stumbled into the open, batting at embers on their suits. Movement flickered at the edge of the firelight. Dozens of tiny soldiers, clad in dark, uniform-like tunics, raised tubular devices to their shoulders.

Pop-pop-pop-pop.

A hail of projectiles peppered them. To Stollen and Lyra, it was like being stung by a swarm of bees—sharp, startling pinpricks through the fabric of their suits, but no real damage.

“Stop!” Stollen bellowed, his voice rolling like thunder. “We mean no harm!”

Lyra was already stomping the flaming shelter into the dirt. A heavier thwump sounded. A wooden shaft the length of a pencil, launched from a larger contraption, streaked toward Stollen’s chest. Lyra’s hand shot out, swatting it aside mid-air. It clattered against a rock, harmless.

Stollen stared at the shattered shaft, then at the organized, unflinching soldiers. “They’ve done this before,” he said, his voice low. “They’ve fought giants.”

His patience, worn thin by hunger, fear, and now fire, snapped. He took a single, earth-shaking step forward. “ENOUGH!” The roar echoed through the trees. “TAKE ME TO YOUR LEADER! NOW!”

The soldiers faltered. The pop-gun fire ceased.

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Dawn arrived gray and cold. As the first light filtered through the needles, a single rider approached on a miniature horse. The young officer reined in his mount at a safe distance, his eyes wary but his posture rigid.

“Elder Eira will see you,” he called up, his voice amplified by a small horn. “Follow the eastern path. Do not stray.”

They shouldered their meager supplies and followed. The path wound through a landscape of meticulous militarization. Watchtowers—structures that would reach Stollen’s knee—dotted the hills. Squads of soldiers drilled in clearings, their shouted commands tinny and distant. The technology here was a stark leap from Skrul’s village. Pulleys were made of finely-machined metal, not wood. Carts rolled on what looked like crude rubber tires.

After an hour, the trees parted, revealing the outskirts of a city. It was all sharp angles and dark stone. And waiting for them, parked on a flattened area, was a vehicle.

It was sleek, low-slung, and powered by a quiet, humming engine, not animal muscle. To them, it was the size of a large toy car, but its design was unmistakably advanced—a compact, rugged thing that wouldn’t have looked out of place in a 1990s Earth military depot.

Standing beside it was Elder Eira. She was tall for a miniature, her hair the color of frost scraped back in a severe knot. Her eyes held no curiosity, only a cold, simmering hatred. Two burly guards flanked her, their hands on weapon hilts.

“Why,” she began, her voice like chipped flint, amplified by a silver disc on her chest, “have you brought your curse to my shore?”

Stollen kept his own voice level, diplomatic. “We mean no curse, Elder Eira. We are travelers, stranded. We need to cross your land to reach Elder Arin’s continent. We seek composites to build a vessel to leave your world.”

Eira’s laugh was a short, sharp bark. “You think I grant passage to giants? The last one to crawl onto my beach left graves and burning fields. He, too, claimed he was ‘lost.’” She spat the word.

Lyra stepped forward. “We’re not him. What if we could help you? Your mines, your construction—we can move weight your people cannot. We can work.”

Eira’s eyes narrowed. She studied Lyra, then Stollen, her gaze calculating. “The deep veins in our northern mines are… stubborn. The ore there is vital. And we have… production goals that are behind schedule.” She gestured vaguely toward a distant, smoking complex. “You will work. You will lift what we cannot. In return, you will receive fuel for your ship. Then you will leave, and if the heavens are kind, I will never look upon your kind again.”

“We agree,” Stollen said quickly.

“You will work under my watch,” Eira stated, her voice final. “Try anything, and you will join the last giant in whatever hole he crawled into.”

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The northern mine was a terrifying place of echoing, tiny shouts and constant, grinding noise. To Stollen and Lyra, the main shaft was a hole in the cliffside about the size of a rabbit warren. Miners, smaller than ants from their perspective, streamed in and out, pushing carts the size of matchboxes.

Their job was simple: move the “boulders” that blocked the deeper tunnels. These rocks were, to them, about the size of a human head, but to the miniature miners, they were house-sized impediments. Stollen lifted them with ease, clearing paths in minutes that would have taken the miners weeks.

During a water break, a young miner approached Lyra. He carried a leather waterskin over his shoulder, struggling under its weight. He was bold enough to come close, looking up at her with cautious curiosity.

“You’re not like the stories,” he said, his voice unamplified but clear in a lull in the noise. He had intelligent eyes and a smudge of soot across his cheek. “You’re… careful. You look where you step.”

Lyra knelt slowly, bringing herself closer to his level. “What stories, kid?”

“My name’s Nathe,” he said. “And the stories say the last giant was a mindless storm. He seemed lost. Confused. Angry. He didn’t… talk. He just broke things.” Nathe glanced toward the foreman’s hut. “He didn’t work for fuel.”

Lyra filed that away. “What happened to him?”

Nathe shrugged. “He vanished. After the militia cornered him near the bluffs. Some say he fell. Some say he was taken. No one knows.” He handed up the waterskin. It was a thimbleful to Lyra, but she took it with a nod of thanks.

Nearby, Stollen was being shown a different operation. The mine complex fed into a series of low, fortified buildings where the constant clang of metalwork was deafening. An engineer, buoyed by Stollen’s obvious technical mind, had proudly shown him their “forge.” It was a series of tiny, intricate structures where they were manufacturing components for projectile launchers—barrels, triggers, combustion chambers.

Stollen, unable to help himself, pointed at a schematic scratched onto a slate. “Your combustion chamber here is too narrow for the grain of propellant you’re using. You’re losing half your pressure before the projectile even moves.”

The miniature engineers clustered around, fascinated. Stollen used a stick to sketch a better design in the dirt. As he worked, he noted the principles were sound—too sound. The basic blueprints were primitive, but someone had given them a perfect, efficient starting point. It felt like they were working from a pre-made template.

That evening, as they ate a paltry meal of mashed tubers in the guarded compound Eira had assigned them, Stollen shared his unease.

“They’re not just making hunting weapons, Lyra. The volume, the standardization… it’s for an army. And the science behind it is… suspiciously good.”

Lyra told him about Nathe’s story. “The last giant ‘vanished’ after the militia cornered him. Doesn’t that sound convenient?”

A sharp crackle in their helmet comms made them both jump.

“The central air shaft is unstable. The third support brace is fractured. Do not enter after sundown.”

It was the whisper. Clear. Specific.

They exchanged a look. The next morning, they heard the news: a minor collapse in the central shaft. No one was hurt, as the night shift had been working a different vein.

On the third day, they were summoned to Eira’s vehicle. The fuel—two dozen polished metal canisters, each the size of a soda can to them—was stacked and waiting.

“You have held your word,” Eira said, no warmth in her tone. It was a statement of fact. “Take what is yours and go. Your path to Arin’s land is along the northern ridge. Do not deviate.”

She offered no thanks. It was a dismissal.

As they carefully loaded the precious fuel canisters into their wagon, Lyra looked back. Near the mine entrance, Nathe stood watching. He didn’t wave, but he met her gaze and gave a single, slight nod.

Stollen secured the last canister. He stared at Eira’s retreating vehicle, a cold realization settling in his gut.

“She never asked,” he said quietly.

“Asked what?” Lyra said.

“Where we got the plans for our ship. What kind of engine we’re building. How we’ll navigate.” He turned to look at the weapons forge, still churning out its tiny, deadly products. “She just wanted us gone. Fast.”

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END OF CHAPTER 5