“Land!” came the shout from the mast.
The spell shattered.
Sails snapped overhead as canvas caught the wind. Ropes whipped against the deck. Boots pounded the planks in a sudden thunder of motion. The crew surged into life, barking orders, pulling lines, rushing to their stations with practiced urgency. Chatter filled the air, sharp with excitement and relief. Five days at sea with clear skies and no storm, and still, every man aboard moved like someone who’d just outrun fate.
I stayed where I was.
The figurehead dipped with the ship’s momentum, as if bowing toward the horizon. I braced myself and stepped forward, just once, to see.
And there it was.
Not a veil of mist. Not a sacred mirage hovering between sea and sky.
The island rose from the water like a god awakening from sleep.
Green cliffs, bright with sunlight, curved along a crescent bay where the waves softened and turned glassy near the shore. Above them, lush forests spilled like silk over the ridgelines, deep emeralds and soft golds, dotted with white-flowering trees that danced in the wind. I couldn’t name them. I’d never seen them in scripture or sketch. They belonged to a different world.
Closer now, the harbor came into view. It was no solemn gateway for pilgrims. It teemed with movement. Dozens of vessels bobbed at the dock, sleek white cutters, gilded trade barges, even a few ceremonial skiffs painted in rich jewel tones. On land, robed figures and shirtless workers moved among the pierswith the same purpose: preparing. Welcoming. Receiving.
Above it all, the sacred city climbed.
Terraces of pale stone layered up the hillside, flanked by cypress trees and hanging gardens, each level catching the light differently—glinting, softening, glowing. Archways bloomed open like petals. Slender towers pierced the blue, their gold-capped spires gleaming like fire in the sun. Far in the distance, at the city’s crown, a temple stood in silent dominion. I couldn’t make out its details, but even from here I felt its pull.
As if something inside it had already turned toward me.
I let go of the railing. My fingers were red, stiff with tension.
So it was real after all.
Not a story. Not a parable or punishment or dream.
Eletheria.
And I had been summoned.
I had thought I might feel awe. Or terror. Or perhaps some stirring of faith—something old and buried rising to meet what lay ahead.
But I felt nothing.
Not yet.
Just the thrum of the ship beneath my feet. The wind in my hair. The terrible quiet inside my chest, where something was waiting to be broken open.
The gangplank struck the dock with a hollowthud, and the captain gave a single nod. That was my cue.
I stepped down last, leather satchel slung over one shoulder, the robes too warm now in the coastal sun. Behind me, the crew began unloading cargo, their voices loud again, laughing in the easy rhythm of men with a task and no reverence for it. I didn’t look back.
He waited just beyond the dock: a young man, no older than I, with honey-colored hair bound in a loose cord and robes the color of seafoam. He carried no weapon, wore no sandals, and yet he stood like someone who had never been refused a thing in his life.
When our eyes met, he smiled. Shallow, pleasant. Practiced.
“Welcome to Eletheria,” he said. “You are expected.”
I bowed slightly, the way I had been taught. “My name is?—”
“There’s no need, Callis,” he interrupted gently, turning on bare feet. “Follow me.”
I did.
