Ta’ha, an old settler of the New World, still leaned on her worn staff, yet the memories of the journey to those distant lands were etched in her mind with the clarity of living fire. She had arrived there twenty-five years earlier, when the New World appeared vast, unknown, and dangerous.
The journey to reach the new land had been anything but simple. The sailors, men hardened by ocean crossings, still spoke of winds they had never seen before, so powerful that the deck planks trembled and trees that seemed made of steel bent under their force. No one knew what was happening: the sea and sky seemed to unleash a fury they had never encountered.
The sky darkened in an instant. Bulging black clouds pressed together above the ship like moving mountains, ready to swallow the daylight. Lightning tore through the air in blinding flashes, followed by thunder that made the wood beneath the men’s feet vibrate. The wind screamed with such force that it tore at the sails and twisted the ropes like strands of straw. The waves, enormous and mighty, crashed against the hull, lifting it only to throw it down again with a deafening crash.
The men shouted, but their voices were swallowed by the roar. Water flooded the decks, salt stung their eyes, and rain fell like a vertical river, making every movement a desperate struggle. Ta’ha remembered the smell of the sea mixed with wet wood, the bitter taste of water invading her mouth and nose, and the sense of helplessness in front of a force they could never have imagined.
Every man on board felt as if they were facing something alive, intelligent in its violence, an invisible beast challenging them, determined to show how small humans were before the new world they were discovering.
When the ship finally reached the shore, the sea calmed just enough for the crew to glimpse the coast. The port city rose before them with its light stone towers, sloped roofs, and bustling boats and merchants: they called it Calemir, one of the first outposts of the New World, a landing point for settlers and brave travelers.
Ta’ha set foot on solid ground with her heart in turmoil. The damp sand and the salty scent of the port reminded her how far she was from the world she had known.
Having lived all her life in the shadows, she was initially disoriented by so much open space. The broad daylight made her uneasy, almost as if she were exposed to the spirits, but over the years she learned to love it. She never chose to live among the village people, nor to adapt to the habits of the emerging civilization along the coasts. For her, commerce, orderly houses, and the voices speaking of progress were nothing but alien noises.
She preferred solitude. She lived on the most isolated slopes, where she could hunt and cultivate small clearings without anyone disturbing her. Occasionally, she descended to the outposts to trade furs, roots, or rare stones for what she needed: a new knife, some salt, a bit of iron. Then she returned to her peaks, where she finally felt free.
Over time, she had learned to breathe again. The mountains she found were not like those of her childhood: they were not a labyrinth of roots blocking the sky, there was no perpetual grip of darkness that clutched the peaks of the Root People. Here, the summits opened toward the sky, illuminated by clear winds and blue skies. The air was sharp but alive, carrying the scent of snow and hidden meadows.
But above all, these mountains were free.
In the lands of her youth, Ta’ha had never known a single day of silence. As a child, she discovered she had a gift that no one, not even her sister Sha’ra, could understand: a constant echo vibrating from the rocks, pools of water, and trees—a menacing cry weaving through caves and peaks. Sha’ra, when it happened, perceived only fleeting tremors, isolated signs she interpreted in fires and winds. But for Ta’ha… it was different. That dark lament was continuous, subtle, and insistent, like a breath on her neck, an invisible presence that never left her alone.
In the end, she had no choice: she had fled. Not out of curiosity, not to chase new paths like many young people of her tribe, but to survive the call that threatened to consume her.
And here, for the first time, she had found silence. No echoes in the rocks, no buried cries. Only peace. Only quiet.
It was what she had always sought, without knowing she was seeking it.
The first lights of dawn had now become full day when she stepped out of her cabin. She had found it abandoned a few years before, an old farmhouse left to rot in the clearing, and with patience, she had brought it back to life: the roof repaired with new boards, the walls reinforced with stones gathered from the forest, a hearth that spat clear smoke in the morning. It was not a home worthy of nobles or rich settlers, but for her it was enough: a solid refuge, hidden among the trees, away from the clamor of men.
And it was there, among the morning light, that she finally saw them.
The “Hun.”
She had searched for them for years, almost obsessed with tales collected in frontier villages, whispered voices around campfires. Creatures belonging more to legend than to flesh. Locals spoke of them with fear and reverence: giants who revealed themselves rarely, and only when they chose. They could go entire generations without a hunter or traveler glimpsing them, for they hid among the northeastern peaks, in that stretch of mountains no one dared to explore.
And there they were.
They were immense: at least fifteen meters tall, covered in thick dark fur that, from a distance, made them seem part of the forest itself. Their steps made the ground vibrate with a slow, powerful rhythm, like each movement was the tolling of an ancient drum. Their eyes, small compared to their bulk, gleamed amber, almost animal.
Ta’ha held her breath. She didn’t know whether to fear them or revere them.
But in that moment, she understood that her flight had not been in vain. Here, among these mountains, she had found not only silence but a living mystery.
There were about ten of them, all of the same colossal stature, yet each moved differently. Some walked bent forward, their long arms dragging across the ground like uprooted roots. Others lifted their knees and elbows with rigid, unnatural movements, almost like a clumsy parade, but lacking grace. None of them gave an impression of harmony: they were enormous, awkward bodies, and the longer you looked, the more you felt that something in them was wrong, out of place.
Ta’ha strained to focus, shading her eyes with her hand to make out the details in the morning light. And then she truly saw them.
A dark halo, like smoke that did not belong to the air, surrounded them. It was not dust stirred by their steps, nor the mountain mist: it was a black, dense aura, dripping from their immense bodies as if it were their very substance.
And she felt it again.
The echo.
That subtle, continuous tremor that had tormented her youth in the mountains of the old world. That silent, menacing cry that no one could perceive except her. She could not be wrong: it was no longer coming from the rocks, but from them.
Each step of the giants resonated inside her like a strike to the gut, amplified by that invisible echo. The mountains of the new world, so peaceful until now, suddenly no longer felt so safe.
“No… not again… not here,” thought Ta’ha, feeling her breath shorten.
One of the Hun stopped abruptly. Then he turned his head toward her. His small eyes, set deep beneath a protruding brow, fixed on her as if they had always known she was there, waiting. And he smiled. An unsettling smile.
At that moment, the dark aura swelled, expanding like a cloud spilling from the colossal body. The echo, that ceaseless cry, grew louder, pounding inside her skull like an incessant drum.
The Hun’s fur began to quiver, as if shaken by an invisible wind. Every strand vibrated in unison with the echo, and the same phenomenon spread to the other giants. One by one, like a wave, they began to vibrate, all smiling, all staring at her.
There was no longer any doubt: they saw her.
The first one, the one who had spotted her, advanced. In a few immense strides he closed the distance, his enormous legs sinking into the ground like pillars, shaking the clearing. Each step was a thunderclap, and with each step, the echo inside Ta’ha became unbearable.
She was there, terrified. Muscles frozen, breath short, heart no longer beating with her own rhythm but with that hammering echo. Incapable of any movement. She couldn’t even think: she had become stone, a block of cement nailed to the clearing.
The giant leaned over her, his immense shadow swallowing her entirely.
“Ohhh… well, well. I see, I see!” he said in a voice that scraped the air, deep and imposing, a sound that made the bones vibrate. “And tell me… do you feel it? It’s calling us.”
Ta’ha’s lips did not move. No response. Only the fixed, stony gaze, while her legs no longer belonged to her.
Behind him, the dark auras of the other Hun began to fade. The giants slowly turned, as if nothing had happened, and started walking westward, toward the sea. Their steps receded, echoing like drums in the valley.
But not the first one.
His aura continued to grow, like black smoke enveloping her, slipping under her skin, into her temples. The giant raised a hand, half the size of her cabin. His fingers opened above her like a sky ready to collapse.
“Already dead?” he murmured. Then he laughed, a grotesque sound that made her stomach vibrate. “Oh well… I see.”
The smile widened further, unnatural, and then the hand fell.
Before darkness overtook her, she managed to utter a single word:
“…Micah.”