Field Journal – Entry VI

  6th of Suncrest, 647 - Shadow Weave

  Camp at the Singing Scree, western base of Mount Corrith

  I am aware how absurd this is; I fear writing it even now…but I dreamt of the mountain again. The dream becomes more vivid every night.

  Or rather, I dream of something within the mountain — a vast chamber lit not by flame but by pressure and song. In the dream the stone itself glowed, as if each grain remembered fire. And through that radiance, I could see the same curve as the crescent: not an ornament, but a fragment of a larger mechanism, like a note from an unfinished scale.

  When I woke this Light Bloom, the crescent was warm.

  I thought at first that my proximity during sleep had done it — but the heat was localized, pulsing gently along its inner edge. I recorded the temperature at intervals: 23°C, then 27, peaking at 31 before cooling again. No ambient change, no fire in camp, no plausible cause.

  The author's narrative has been misappropriated; report any instances of this story on Amazon.

  I spent most of the day conducting tests.

  First, I suspended the object from a line to test magnetic interference — nothing, though the compass spun slow circles as though seasick.

  Second, I placed it in a sand tray on a balanced pivot and rotated it in 15° increments, marking any shift in orientation. At 42° north-northeast it tilted toward the slope, holding there with faint resistance. Repeating the test in different locations gave the same result: always the same direction, as if pulled by a subtle gravity of intention.

  I mapped the vector — it points toward the upper ridges, the same curve where the mountain’s face reddens.

  The hum I first noted when approaching the cliff has grown more definite, almost tonal. The artifact responds to resonance. When I struck a tuning fork at 512 Hz, the crescent replied with a faint harmonic an octave lower, like a sigh through stone. When I spoke — “where do you come from?” — the vibration paused, then answered in rhythm to my syllables, though whether from echo or imitation I cannot yet discern.

  I feel absurd writing this, but there is a sense that it listens.

  At Light Fall I carried it to the valley overlook. The forests below are shrouded in mist; the air smells of resin and cold iron. From here the mountains fold like frozen waves, their seams catching the last orange light. For a moment, the entire horizon shimmered — and I heard, distantly, the faintest metallic ringing. Perhaps rockfall. Perhaps thunder. But the artifact began to hum in unison, soft but insistent, like a heartbeat answering another heartbeat from miles away.

  I stayed there long after the light died. The sound faded, but not entirely. It lingers under my own pulse now, like something waiting for acknowledgment.

  Tomorrow I climb.

  If this is madness, I would rather follow it than return ignorant.

  — A.T.