Glint Thanos Kalamidas Glint Sagas of Prime Assemble Thanos Kalamidas Ovi ebooks are available in Ovi/Ovi eBookshelves pages and they are for free. If somebody tries to sell you an Ovi book please contact us immediately. For details, contact: ovimagazine@yahoo.com No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise), without the prior permission of the writer or the above publisher of this book An Ovi eBooks Publication 2025 Ovi eBookPublications - All material is copyright of the Ovi eBooks Publications & the writer C Glint Glint Thanos Kalamidas Sagas of Prime Assemble Thanos Kalamidas An Ovi eBooks Publication 2025 Ovi eBookPublications - All material is copyright of the Ovi eBooks Publications & the writer C Glint T hey called it the Glassfield. It sprawled across Titan’s southern hemisphere like a spilled thought, an impossibly ordered chaos glitter- ing beyond the Shackleton Trench, where no wind had ever truly blown and no sound carried farther than a whisper of methane vapor. To the eye, it looked like a frozen city built by a mathematician’s fever dream: towers of crystal rising in elegant, impossi- ble angles, repeating fractal motifs in formations too perfect to be natural and too unearthly to be artifi- cial. Some swore the structures resonated with a faint tone, a sound you didn’t hear so much as feel behind your sternum, like a tuning fork made for ghosts. Thanos Kalamidas They shimmered in the thin light like sunken ca- thedral windows. But no one could quite say what re- fracted the light that way. There was no sun to speak of on Titan, only Saturn’s distant golden gaze and the dim white glimmer of distant Sol. Yet the Glassfield shone, not reflected, but glowed with a light that had the texture of memory. Naturally, the scientists came. Geologists from the Triton-Mars Accord, xeno- geometrists from Ceres, one persistent symbiologist from Europa who insisted the crystals might be dor- mant lifeforms and referred to them as “geopsychic mycelia,” much to everyone’s irritation. They estab- lished temporary structures at the perimeter, laid out diagnostic sensor webs, and posed for photos against the shining spires, suits reflecting their own warped images like carnival mirrors. At first, the field was a curiosity, an anomaly to log and monetize. There were jokes. Someone referred to it as “Titan’s jewelry box.” Another called it “an alien art gallery designed by an autistic god.” Some- one tried to chisel off a sample and lost a glove and a fingertip when the fragment flared white-hot and hissed like dry ice in reverse. Glint Then one of the field technicians, a twenty-four- year-old hydrothermics graduate from New Oslo named Radik Mern, reached out, unthinking, and touched one. He did not scream immediately. First, he gasped. Then he dropped to his knees and began weeping, whispering, “It’s all still there... it’s all still there...” over and over in Old Finnish, a language he had never learned. When the medics reached him, he was cradling the crystal like a child, eyes wide and shining with something no sedative could dull. Later, when he could speak again, he described what he saw. A river, winding through a forest that no longer ex- isted, its banks teeming with strange mammals with scales for eyelids. A Neolithic ritual on a cliffside. The precise, slow construction of an ancient hut by hands too calloused to belong to any modern human. Then, a kitchen in 16th-century Flanders: a mother kneading dough with one hand while swatting her child with the other laughing. And in that moment, Mern claimed, he knew, not guessed, not deduced, but knew that the bread she baked that day would, Thanos Kalamidas five hundred years later, nourish the stomach of an assassin who would kill a man whose son would cure a disease. How do you process that? How do you catalog it? What geological sample form do you tick for “un- provable chronospatial hallucination with transhis- torical precision”? They ran tests. The crystals weren’t technological. They weren’t emitting electromagnetic radiation, not in any spectrum known. They had no moving parts. They grew, yes but very slowly, and always outward, like memory accreting in a mindless brain. And yet... they responded. Touch them, and they offered visions. Not dreams. Not metaphors. Memories. But not yours. The Glassfield, it seemed, remembered things. And that’s when Titan stopped being an explora- tion site and became classified. Because the real question wasn’t “What are they?” Glint It was “Who do the memories belong to?” And as every politician and philosopher since Earth first spun under starlight has understood: memory is never neutral. And secrets, well... Secrets get expensive. * * * * * * * Lieutenant Eno Cassadine preferred asteroids to moons, and moons to people. She was not one for mystery. Her tastes ran toward predictable physics, clean Newtonian trajectories, and the brittle silence of vacuum where nothing could lie to you. But here she was: standing on Saturn’s moon Ti- tan in a high-impact environmental suit, looking out at something that could only be described as a mistake of creation. The Glassfield was fifty kilome- ters wide and shaped like a melted crown. Spires of impossible geometry stabbed skyward like frozen lightning, refracting Titan’s dim ambient glow with a faint shimmer that should not... could not, exist. The field pulsed faintly, like a thing asleep and dreaming of stars. It was the kind of place that demanded metaphor, even from the most jaded soldier. Thanos Kalamidas “Looks like a cathedral fell into a mirror factory,” someone muttered behind her over comms. “No talking unless I say,” Eno replied. “This is re- con, not poetry.” They moved out. Her team of twelve advanced cautiously across the brittle plain, boots crunching against frost-laced crystal sediment. Their instruments pinged regu- larly: seismic resonance low but present, radiation background negligible, no EM activity. No signs of life. And yet... “There’s a smell,” said Private Kwok. “In the airlock, I mean. Before we came out. Like... rotted honey?” “Your nose doesn’t work in vacuum, Kwok,” Eno said. “Unless you’ve developed a new type of nasal telemetry. Have you?” “...No, ma’am.” “Then shut up and sweep your sector.” They fanned out. The largest spire dubbed “T-Alpha” in the logs, Glint rose 22 meters from the ground, terminating in a helix that rotated slowly in the windless dark, as if it needed no atmosphere to turn. Its base was sur- rounded by a mosaic of smaller crystal formations arranged in perfect radial symmetry—no sign of toolwork, but no natural formation behaved like this either. Eno knelt beside one and tapped it with her gloved knuckle. It sang. A low, mournful harmonic, like a pipe organ hum- ming from the inside out. Just once. Then silence. Eno blinked. “Dr. Bren,” she said into comms. “Get up here.” Dr. Thalos Bren trudged up from the secondary unit, his bulky xeno-psychobiology pack bouncing on his back like a slow parasite. He was tall, tanned in the pale way of orbital-born humans, and had the breathless zeal of a man who believed the universe owed him a miracle for all the years he’d spent chas- ing ghosts. He reached the spire and touched it with open rev- erence. Thanos Kalamidas “Gods,” he whispered. “We’re standing inside a memory made physical.” “No theology, Bren. Just science.” “This isn’t science,” he said softly. “This is confes- sion.” Eno rolled her eyes behind her visor. Then the screaming started. It was Private Arjun this time, one of the newer recruits. He’d wandered off-grid slightly, against pro- tocol. Someone shouted for him, then a scream ex- ploded through the comms: not one of pain, but of unfiltered, unhinged revelation. “I saw myself as wind!” he howled. “I was pollen, I seeded an entire continent!” Eno was already sprinting toward the ping. She found him convulsing on the ground, helmet cracked and face twisted in ecstasy or agony impossi- ble to tell. A fine mist of blood misted his visor from the inside. She pulled him back from the crystal he had touched a narrow pillar with curling vines etched Glint into its surface like fossilized ivy and shouted for the medbots. Bren was already scanning it. “His brain is firing on every cylinder simultaneous- ly,” he said. “Temporal lobes lit up like gamma bursts. He’s seeing everything. Past, present, maybe even...” “Shut up and stabilize him,” Eno barked. Three minutes later, Arjun was dead. Not from trauma. Not from pressure breach or crystal poison or even the cracked helmet. His brain had hemorrhaged in six places simultaneously. An overload. A surge of perception that his biolo- gy couldn’t contain. He died weeping and laughing, whispering in a language none of their translators could recognize. Eno stood over his body in silence. Then she turned to the others. “New rule,” she said. “No one touches anything un- less ordered. You see a crystal, you log it. That’s it.” A silence hung in the comms for a beat too long. Then Bren, defiant as ever, broke it. Thanos Kalamidas “You’re wasting the opportunity of several life- times, Lieutenant.” “I’m saving lives,” she snapped. But the field wasn’t finished. That night, back at base, the solar wind kicked up a minor storm. The comms fizzled. The outer sensors triggered a false seismic alarm. And somewhere just past midnight, Private Sonya Rell, quiet, sober, pain- fully by-the-book Sonya, snuck out of base with her helmet off. She walked a kilometer into the Glassfield, staring at the spires as if they’d called her by name. The last footage from her helmet cam showed her touching a small, amber-hued shard and whispering, “I remember... the teeth.” Then static. When the rescue team found her the next morn- ing, she was still alive. Mostly. She sat cross-legged in the frost, eyes wide open Glint and bleeding. Her hands were covered in tiny inci- sions, self-inflicted, like she’d tried to write some- thing on her own palms. There were symbols, patterns. Fractal in nature. And not human. She never spoke again. Dr. Bren examined her for days, muttering theo- ries about quantum imprinting, neurolinguistic re- cursion, ancestral resonance. None of it made sense. But something else did. Eno began checking the field logs. And she noticed a pattern. The field wasn’t reacting randomly. It was escalating. Each contact grew more intense. Each memory more vivid. Each cost more. Thanos Kalamidas By the end of the week, four were dead, two cata- tonic, and the rest were shaken to the point of super- stition. Bren called it evolution. Eno called it bait. On the eighth day, she stood alone in front of the spire. No sensors. No patch. Just her. “You want someone to remember?” she whispered. “Fine. Let’s remember.” She reached out... and touched it. * * * * * * * Time folded. Eno Cassadine didn’t fall, she unfurled. As her hand met the cold alien geometry of the crystal spire, a sensation like swallowing lightning flared through every nerve. Her eyes burned white; her bones sang. Then... She was other. Not another person. Anoth- er time. She stood barefoot on the edge of an ocean that no Glint longer existed, black waves kissing phosphorescent sand. A violet moon rose overhead, no Titan moon this and below it, creatures with silken necks and hexagonal eyes mourned in a chorus of longing. She watched them build obelisks with their thoughts. She became one of them. She loved, fought, perished twice. She whispered the name of a dying star into the ice. She learned the taste of sunlight that humans would never see. Then it all slipped sideways. Now she stood in an Iron Age longhouse, skin smeared in soot, watching two men duel with stone knives beneath a bone chandelier. One of them ...her? stabbed the other and wept. The weeping was not for guilt. It was for joy. Then: the fall of Constantinople from the eyes of a rat. A burning forest. The murder of a child king. A kiss exchanged in a trench moments before an explo- sion turned love into vapor. Memory. Layered. Endless. She saw a woman give birth inside a collapsing cave while wolves circled outside. She saw language Thanos Kalamidas invented, forgotten, then re-invented. She witnessed the first lie. And every single moment whispered the same thing: We remember. We remember. We remember. When Eno finally fell backward, the cry of the crys- tal ringing in her skull like a death knell, she vomited inside her helmet. Her HUD flickered red. Time stut- tered back into linearity. Her knees hit the ground. “Lieutenant! Lieutenant Cassadine, respond!” Bren’s voice squawked in her ear. She breathed. “Still here,” she rasped. “Get the others. They need to see this.” But they didn’t need to see anything. Because the Glassfield had already woken up. All around her, the crystal spires vibrated, softly at first, then with bone-humming intensity. Fractals split into new spirals. New shapes erupted from the Glint soil in eerie fluidity, growing in real time like frost patterns on fast-forward. Private Kellen, who’d been standing twenty meters behind, screamed as a crystalline vine shot from the ground and pierced his suit at the thigh. He con- vulsed once and dropped. The field was changing. And it wasn’t waiting. “Get back to base!” Eno shouted. “Fall back! Do not touch anything!” But it was too late for that. Kwok, panicking, fired his weapon at a low-grow- ing obelisk. The pulse round struck home, crystal shattered into prismatic dust. For half a second, the field went still. Then everything screamed. The sound was not made by air. It moved through the ground, up into their boots, their bones, their thoughts. A subharmonic blast of anguish, not pain, but mourning. The field had been wounded. Thanos Kalamidas Now it would defend itself. The spires convulsed. They sprouted razors. One of the smaller soldiers, Deliu, was skewered through the chest in a blink. His internal fluids hissed into the methane air. Dr. Bren stood frozen. “It’s retaliating,” he mur- mured. “They’re not just storing memory. They are memory. Distributed, defensive... neural coral.” Eno pulled him by the collar as another shard sliced past them, humming like a tuning fork of death. “Move, genius!” The team scattered. Three more fell. Base Command watched in horror from orbit. The commander barked for extraction drones, but they were ten minutes out. The field would not last ten seconds. Eno made it to the transport crawler, half-buried in frost and dust and dragged Bren inside. Two more followed. The rest... she didn’t look back. Then, silence. The crawler’s windows fogged as frost from the