After one day of recovery for the surviving climbers, the Festival began at full dark the day after the Ascension. At the top of a hill near the base of the Spires, three pyres illuminated Kalengal Valley in a raging light.

Malik and all the other surviving climbers lined up in front of the pyres, while the four Faltari clans looked on.

Three youths had fallen this year, all during the storm. In that way, it was an ordinary Ascent, but somehow, this truth offered Malik no comfort tonight.

His father raised his hands, standing in front of the newly-christened young men and women of Faltara. Fifteen survivors in all.

The entire valley fell silent.

With hish to amplify his voice, Joren addressed all the Faltari people, as he did every year.

“Long ago, our ancestors made the most difficult decision anyone can make. To leave their world of their ancestors behind and create a new life. To trust the signs of the gods, even though their destination was uncharted, even though no one before had crossed through this Gate.”

Joren gestured up at the Spires, shadows hovering behind him.

“Our ancestors did not know what they would find on the other side. But they knew the survival of our very people depended on their courageous hearts and adventurous spirits. The world had grown evil, and rather than power or wealth, our people led the way. They forged a new path, and chose a peaceful existence on an unknown island in a strange world.

“It is true ours is no easy existence. Faltara is harsh and breathtaking land. Crops do not come without toil. Winters are long and cruel. We share this land with ancient predators, and at times, we face conflicts within. That same corruption that lingers from the world we left behind.

“But the gods were wise, and they bestowed wisdom upon our ancestors. The four clans were formed to strike a balance amongst our people. Four chieftains, representing four aspects of the same Faltari heritage. All of you possess your own gifts, as does each of your clans. But each one of us comes to maturity the same way. Ever since the Crossing, it has always been so. Each Ascent begins alone, but like the clans themselves, many discover how hard it is to survive without the aid of your kin.”

Malik couldn’t help but glance over at Aram Tulsein. The tall boy rolled his eyes at the shaman’s words. Malik could imagine what the cocky young man was muttering. Aram was the First Ascendant, and he had done it all on his own.

Though, of course, that was untrue. Aram had been trained by members of his clan, like everyone else. But such balanced thinking was beyond someone like Aram.

“Our survival depends on the sacrifice of us all,” Joren went on. “It is a lesson that can cost a life just as easily in the Spires, as anywhere else on the island. We endure nothing alone. We Faltari face all things as one people in the end. That goes for celebration, but also for mourning.”

A lump formed in Malik’s throat. An ache in his chest. For what seemed the thousandth time in a day, he pictured Petyr’s smile. There. And then simply—gone.

“Fifteen of you have survived the same dangerous Ascent we all have faced, bringing back relics from a lost world. You’ve gazed at the bones of our past. Glimpsed the fate of the fallen who’ve come before. A civilization that choked the very life out of our ancestors. And eventually, out of their own existence. Even the very dragons that brought that civilization to its prominence can no longer exist there. And so we journey, once a year. To remember. To face the bitter spirits of our past.”

Writhing shadows sifted through his vision, picturing Derrin. The corpses that filled that temple. The faces on the pillars.

“You have endured. You have seen our past. Now, may you lead us forward along the path the gods have set before us.”

Malik’s father paused and held up a cloth of all four colors, representing those who’d returned. Both now, and always.

Did you know this text is from a different site? Read the official version to support the creator.

Joren released it into the wind, and it writhed through the air, aided by a hint of hish, before settling in some child’s hands in the midst of the crowd—a special blessing. There was a brief exultation.

Then, Joren produced three black cloths.

“Three of our own did not return to us, a hard and necessary sacrifice. But one we never take lightly. We Faltari are no strangers to death or hardship. We do not fear it. These three Ascended with honor, and they fell, as we all shall fall, one day. May they prepare the way for us in the life to come, just as they have done in this. Tonight, they feast in the halls of Urshalla, with the gods themselves. Having fought bravely in this life.”

Joren released the black cloths into the wind one at a time. Strips of fabric darted across the gathering and fell amongst them. Somewhere in the crowd, other children snatched up each of the cloths, and would deliver them solemnly to each mother of the fallen.

The entire valley fell silent once more.

Crowds parted, forming one aisle. Kin of one of the fallen strode through the crowd, carrying a stretcher made of dark cloth and bone-white tree limbs. A shrouded body lay upon the first stretcher.

As they neared, Malik recognized Petyr’s elder brother, Davar, and his father, Elder Dannsein, head of the Saber clan. They and other family members carried the stretcher, while his mother walked before them, sprinkling the white and purple petals of high mountain ruleas.

The sight sent shivers through him. Last year, it had been Malik carrying that stretcher. His mother and sister casting the flowers.

Torches ignited across the crowd, a sea of dancing flames and dimly-lit faces, and a soft chorus ushered up from the crowd.

“Elesa volonai. Menassa elonai…”

“Utlesa sheshonash. Alesa renonash…”

An ancient prayer in a tongue from the fallen world, so Malik’s father said. According to Joren, its truest meaning was a reason for contention, but for the people of Faltara, it was a cry for unity and collective sorrow.

The other two fallen climbers were carried to the base of the hill at the center of the gathering. Every man, woman, and child in the valley lifted up their voices.

Malik did not join them at first, though he knew the words better than any mantra in his own tongue. He looked out at his people, and then, up into the darkness where the shadows of the spires loomed.

“Elesa volonai. Menassa elonai…”

“Utlesa sheshonash. Alesa renonash…”

The gods move through us. For we are their children.

From them, we were begotten. To them, we shall return.

Malik had sung the words over the fallen every year. Until they were to be sung over the spirit of his brother.

He had not been able to bring himself to sing over his Derrin’s body and only mouthed the words. He’d intended to do the same now, but then, his gaze settled on Petyr’s mother. Tears streaked her cheeks, and she beat her palm against her chest with each line, chanting with all the sincerity in her spirit.

Elder Dannsein kept one hand at his wife’s shoulder, and began to pound his chest too. And then, their other son joined. Releasing Petyr’s spirit from this place. To join the Great Breath of the gods.

The foreign words overwhelmed him with a spiritual sense beyond anything Malik could explain. For the past two years, he had felt so alone in his sorrow. So alone in his despair over a shifted fate and uncertain future and a brother he’d butted heads with, but had always loved.

In this throng, surrounded by the voices of his people, all this turmoil drifted into the heavens like their voices.

As the third body was laid to rest at the base of the hill, Malik lifted up his voice to join with his people.

“Elesa volonai. Menassa elonai…”

“Utlesa sheshonash. Alesa renonash…”

The entire song, Malik’s father kept his hands raised. As the last line faded, slipping up into the misty night, Joren dropped his hands and turned to the surviving climbers.

His eyes settled on Malik, and he nodded. Malik stepped forward as they had rehearsed. Riese, Yuri, and Ulgar joined him, and they were accompanied by Lera Pelesadeil, who came from Petyr’s same clan. The other survivors formed up into two more groups. Five for each fallen climber.

Malik and the others knelt at Petyr’s side and bowed their heads. There was no sound but their breaths, and the shh-shh-ing of trees in the breeze.

Bodies were not always found. Malik did not know whether these shrouds contained the remains of Petyr at all. That was a matter for Petyr’s family, and them alone. From such a height, Malik knew Petyr’s body would be hardly recognizable. Yet, the stretcher bore a human form wrapped in layers of white cloth, not a pile of crumpled bones.

Derrin had been lost to the Abyss, and yet, his stretcher had looked similar. The lie had enraged Malik before, but seeing it now, he understood the words his father had spoken countless times.

Our rituals matter, not because they are the fullness of what’s true, but because they point to truth.

Malik raised his head and stood. Each of the five greeted the members of Petyr’s family with an embrace. Then, they gathered once more around the stretcher. Malik looked over at his companions. Lera trembled with silent sobs. Riese bit her lip. Yuri remained expressionless. Ulgar nodded to Malik, a lone tear trickling down the sharp features of his face.

Malik nodded to them.

They stooped down and lifted the stretcher. It was heavy, but manageable, and together, they strode back up the hill, raised the stretcher above their heads, and heaved Petyr Bromsein’s remains into the central pyre.

Flames rushed into the heavens.