The Canaan Highlands stretch like a scar between wilderness and promise. Sparse olive trees cling to fractured soil, their roots as deep as memory. The air here is thin, dry, and expectant—holding the silence of something waiting to be named.

This is the landscape of obedience. Of altars built with trembling hands and voices heard only in the wind. Here, Abraham raised stones for sacrifice, and in that act, he raised something else: the idea that one could speak—and be spoken to—by the Infinite.

Though no city marked the moment, no temple sealed its memory, the mountain itself became sacred. Not by decree, but by echo. It remains nameless in Protopia’s map, for the moment itself redefined the place.

Athena, cast away by what she witnessed, would not forget the texture of its dust. Harmonia, though absent, keeps its image folded in her scrolls. The Canaan Highlands are not simply a place. They are a threshold—between gods and men, silence and command, fear and faith.