Ocular Astra Journeys: The Seven Hearth

CHAPTER 7: THE GIFT

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 floor near the altar, brushed dust from a worn stone. “Thorold’s excavation teams always camp to the northwest before they leave with full carts. Claira’s barges anchor in the western cove. They don’t come for the view.”

They had a direction.

The journey northwest took the rest of the day. The signs were subtle to their giant senses—a wide path of compressed grass where many miniature feet had passed, discarded tool handles the size of toothpicks, the sour smell of disturbed earth.

They found the site as the smaller suns began to dip toward the horizon.

It was a raw scar on a hillside. To the miniature people, it would be a vast quarry. To Stollen and Lyra, it was a gouge in the slope the size of a swimming pool. And within it, exposed in layered veins, was the composite.

It glowed. A soft, internal cerulean blue pulsed within crystalline lattices that looked both organic and manufactured. Stollen pried a piece loose. It was lightweight, incredibly strong, and warm to the touch.

“This is it,” he breathed. “The matrix for the hull. This is what they’re stealing.”

Lyra hefted a larger chunk. “How much do we need?”

“Enough to frame a ship. No more.” Stollen looked at the ravaged hillside. “We’re not here to plunder. We’re here to borrow.”

They worked carefully, harvesting only the most accessible veins, leaving the deeper deposits untouched. By nightfall, they had a modest pile of the glowing crystal stacked beside their campsite.

When they returned to the village at dawn, the sight of the composites caused a stir. For the first time, Arin’s people were touching the substance that had been taken from them for generations. They approached cautiously, their tiny hands brushing the cool, glowing surfaces, their faces full of wonder rather than fear.

The work began in earnest.

Time compressed. What would have taken weeks of miniature labor took days with the giants’ strength. Stollen used strips of composite to reinforce crumbling irrigation channels, creating sleek, blue-glinting conduits that would last centuries. Lyra and Nathe worked with teams of villagers to clear fallow fields and re-plant fast-growing grain stalks. The air, once heavy with resignation, began to hum with purposeful energy.

On the second day, Lyra paused, watching a line of villagers carry baskets of seed—each basket the size of her thumbnail—to the new fields.

“Our supplies,” she said to Stollen, her voice low. “Even if they load this canoe with everything they can spare… it’ll be a handful of crumbs to us. A day’s ration. How does this work?”

Stollen wiped sweat from his brow. “We’ll make it work. We’ll hunt. We’ll fish. We’ll find a way. We have to.”

He didn’t sound as confident as he wanted to.

On the third morning, Arin found them at the shore. “Come.”

He led them around a rocky headland. There, pulled up on the sand, was the canoe.

It was a masterpiece of composite-laced wood, curved and graceful. It was built to their scale—large enough for them both to sit comfortably, with space for their wagon and supplies. The hull was reinforced with woven strands of the blue crystal, making it shimmer faintly in the morning light. Intricate carvings ran along the gunwales, telling miniature stories of harvests and stars.

“Every person worked,” Arin said softly, his eyes shining. “The elders carved. The children gathered the binding resins. The mothers wove the seating. It will carry you, and your wagon, and your hopes. It is our thanks.”

Lyra reached out, her fingers tracing the smooth, cool hull. She didn’t speak. She didn’t need to.

Loading took an hour. The composites, the precious fuel from Eira, their modified wagon—all fit neatly into the canoe’s belly. The villagers lined the shore, silent. No cheers, just a profound, quiet solidarity.

Arin stood at the water’s edge as they climbed in. “The next island, Arinthal’s, has the polymers you seek. But the sea between… is not ours. The currents are clever. The creatures have grown large on the leavings of other worlds. Be watchful.”

They pushed off. The canoe was perfectly balanced, slicing through the calm inlet with barely a sound. Behind them, Arin’s island—continent to its people, a quiet stretch of hills to them—shrank into the mist. The villagers became specks, then vanished.

For a long time, the only sounds were the dip of their paddles and the sigh of the water. Nathe sat in the bow, his back to them, staring at the horizon where the six smaller suns hung in their strange, fixed cluster.

“My grandfather,” Nathe said, not turning around, “used to say the suns were eggs. That one day they’d hatch, and new worlds would spill out.” He finally glanced back, his expression unreadable. “I think he was half right.”

Stollen kept paddling. “How so?”

“Eira gets metal from somewhere. Not from her mines—her mines are spent. Skrul knows things… things from before. Arin is bled dry, but no one helps him.” Nathe’s voice was low, thoughtful. “It’s like we’re not seven islands. We’re seven… floors. And someone on the top floor controls the elevator.”

Lyra barked a short, tired laugh. “You’ve been in the sun too long, Nathe. We’re on a planet. With a very weird set of moons that act like suns. It’s a physics problem, not a conspiracy.”

“Maybe,” Nathe conceded. “But a physics problem doesn’t explain why Thorold’s army is always stronger. Why Claira’s people never speak. Why the help always goes to the ones who already have.” He looked up at the six bright dots. “What if they’re not moons? What if they’re just… the other floors? And we’re in the basement.”

Stollen was quiet. The idea was ludicrous. And yet… the mural in Arin’s temple. The precise geometric atmosphere. The way scale itself seemed broken here.

“It’s a big ‘what if,’ Nathe,” Stollen said finally. “We need polymers, not philosophy.”

Nathe just nodded, turning back to face the open sea. But his words lingered, mixing with the salt mist.

Lyra watched Arin’s island disappear into the haze. Her voice was barely audible over the water.

“We helped them. But if Nathe’s elevator theory is even a little bit right… we didn’t just give them hope. We might have sent a message to the top floor.”

Ahead, the sea stretched out, vast and unknown. Somewhere out there was Arinthal’s island. And answers, or more questions, waiting in the deep.

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