The Festival of the Ascendant always left Joren feeling bitterly torn.

Ceremonies went on for two more days. Once the fallen were interred, the Ascension became a blissful celebration. Every clan gathered the finest from their respective harvests—potatoes and berries, shellfish and pikes, stags and groundlings.

Village bards recounted Ascents of the past with thrilling embellishments. Mead flowed from barrels in abundance, followed by long nights of dancing and contests.

It was a jester’s bet around the island among old and young, guessing how many children would be conceived as a result of the festivities. As well as how many injuries would occur. Mostly from the wild hunts that arose after the smoking of a certain concoction known as shintash, which dulled the sense of fear and pain, and sent hunters on one of the most thrilling chases of their lives.

It, like many of the other festivities that accompanied Ascension, was a ritual Joren had always cringed at, but which his own father and grandfather and all the shamans that had come before had all insisted was necessary to maintain peace on the Isle of Faltara.

There was plenty of infighting among the clans the rest of the year, but the joy found during the Ascension provided unity. It lowered barriers, formed unbreakable bonds. Dragyr clansmen fought alongside Serpents for the hides of stags and sometimes even bears. Jackal kin bore children with Sabers. And the people of Faltara were reminded that they remained one people, despite the year’s poor harvests on the western side of the island, despite territorial disputes over hunting grounds, and the inevitable conflicts that incurred over a thief or harlot from one clan or another.

The Ascension was an annual reminder of what they’d left in the world before, and why they’d chosen their secluded life on this island in the first place. In other corners of the world, nations slaughtered one another over such disputes, but here on the Isle of Faltara, they had found a way to exist another way. When this Festival was done, they would leave these mountains, and the outside world would be welcomed for days of feasting and trading at the port village of Yerida.

The Festival of the Fading Sun, when they would be unified once more before a short autumn and a cruel winter. When they would welcome foreigners, trading for tools and southern grains,

On occasion, one of their own chose to sail off with some charismatic trader, to see the world. It was common enough, the ritual was given a name—uhmskara.

The Wandering.

But within a year or two, the youths almost always returned. The outside world was never as sweet as they imagined from songs and tales. Joren knew this all too well, for he had once gone on a Wandering of his own, after his own Ascension.

But that felt like a lifetime ago.

Joren kept close to Madri through the final days of the festival, both of them keeping a close eye on Surel, who had blossomed into a young woman since the last festival. Overnight, it seemed to Joren, and more than one of the village boys had taken a sudden attraction to her.

Since the funeral rites, Joren had seen little of his son, and he kept reminding himself this was normal for a boy just come of age. Surely, no different than any of the other young men and women of the island. But no matter how he tried, he felt a growing distance from his son. In his spirit. Much like he’d once felt for his own shaman father.

A sense that had been growing steadily ever since Derrin’s death, like a fishing boat trawling peacefully beyond the fjord, until suddenly, you realized you no longer recognized the shoreline.

All through the ceremonies, bodies passed Joren like vessels in the darkness. Resonances flashing in his spiritual sight. Voices echoing across great distances.

A shaman’s role was minimal during the heart of the festival, and at times, Joren’s very existence felt anchored by little more than exchanges of pleasantries between passing ships.

Perhaps it was the necessity of a shaman, but for so long, Joren had felt like a soul set adrift amongst his people, tethered to a body that was not his own. And some deep part of him felt certain it ought not to be this way.

There was an inherent separateness unavoidable for his role, sure, but he was also more vital and connected than most others on the island could ever imagine. For Joren shared a spiritual connection with them.

But with that connection came knowledge. Joren, more than any other—even more than the village chieftains—had peered behind all the curtains, understood all that made his people who and what they were. And the weight of it pressed upon him.

As the festival whirled around him in colorful bursts of joy and color and song, Joren could not shake a feeling of brokenness and failure. Even his own children felt separate now.

If not for Madri, Joren felt sure he would lose himself to the spirit realms.

Just when he felt like he might slip away, always she would usher him back with some comment. A warm squeeze of the hand, pulling him into a conversation with an old friend of his mother’s. Pointing to laugh as a Saber boy’s awkward attempt at flirtation sailed right over the head of their oblivious young daughter. Drawing his attention as the sun dipped behind the Spires and fiery colors radiated across the skies.

Each moment warded off the dread of the rites to come at the close of the festival.

***

Alkine horns bellowed across the valley, and Malik waited at the back of the crowd, joy and triumph and melancholy churning in his spirit.

On the final night of the festival, the Ascendant were paraded once more before the four clans. Torches lit up the mountain valley in myriad colors, burning a special powder reserved only for the sacred dragon ceremonies. Flames of indigo and emerald and magenta cast the entire sea of faces in a magical light, every color and sound intended to magnify the brilliance of what each climber presented.

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Little boys and girls from every clan paraded first, waving banners and twirling vibrant ribbons of cloth. When they reached the crest of the knoll at the base of the Mountains of Souls, they released the cloths, with a soft rush of hish.

Dancers followed. Then, more horns. And then, the climbers themselves to beat of drums.

For the past several days, the dragon eggs had been stowed in a sacred chest, guarded at all times.

With the festival’s many distractions, the entire ordeal in the Spires had begun to feel like a dream for Malik. Until his fingers brushed over the thick ridges of emerald once more. The dragon scales caught the light and flashed like prisms as the climbers made their way towards flames once more.

The clan elders greeted each Ascendant as they crested the hill. Flames from a single towering pyre shot into the skies behind them, dancing and crackling, while drumbeats thundered and echoed off the walls of the secluded valley.

Aram Tulsein reached the elders first and held his dark blue egg aloft, eliciting cheers across the valley. Then, he took his place standing before the pyre, facing the clans.

“Get ready, son,” Joren murmured.

They were to bring up the rear of the procession.

In his hands, Malik sensed a soft resonance emanating from within the shell of hollow stone, and he could not suppress a swell of sadness. He had not accessed hish since he’d returned from his Ascent—ever since he’d begun shaman training, it felt overwhelming in such crowds. Reaching for it now, the weight of this sacrifice pressed on his spirit.

Dormant for centuries, Malik knew without doubt there was life inside this egg. Even in the Abyss, he’d sensed the dragon spirit.

Riese and Yuri marched ahead of him, walking with the other Ascendant of the Jackal clan.

Joren nodded to him.

Malik held a deep breath, released, and set out in front of the crowd, his dragon egg held at chest level. He’d spent the afternoon scrubbing and polishing the emerald scales. Up close, they contained far more colors, and the shell refracted the torchlight with breathtaking brilliance. Malik could feel the gaze of the crowd as though it were something physical. He held his head high and forced himself to focus only on the feelings of joy in his spirit. His mother and sister stood near the front of the crowd, beaming with smiles as he passed, and he found himself smiling in spite of himself.

As he summited the hill, horns blared one last time, and the valley went silent. Malik bowed a greeting to each elder, and then lastly, he bowed to his father.

Malik held his egg above his head and the final chorus of cheers resounded across the valley.

Joren, dressed in the colors of all four clans, held up his hands, and the people quietened.

“The life we share on this island is a good life, a beautiful life,” Joren began. It was a similar speech every year. “But it has not come without sacrifice. It is a truth the world over that you can never fully appreciate something until it is gone. It is this truth that lies at the heart of the Ascension ceremony. To remember where we came from. To recall what was left behind, and the life we formed anew. And perhaps most importantly, to remember what we forsake to maintain this peaceful existence.

“The world beyond is not so different from that dead world we left behind. Beyond our shores, empires rise and fall. Nations slaughter one another over arbitrary borders. Dragon riders destroy ships and armies, entire villages. In the days to come, we will welcome emissaries from many shores. It is important we do not forget that this world is not ours alone. But tonight marks the way in which we are different. We do not live this life of peace by accident. It is a choice. To forsake the darkness and embrace the light. Our Ascendant have once again faced that darkness, and they have returned the braver and the wiser for it. They have tested themselves. Now, let their sacrifice be complete.”

Malik’s gut twisted as Aram Tulsein stepped forward one last time. Malik had never seen a dragon. There were few on the island who had, but he had heard the tales of the riders of the Attican Empire. He could imagine one of the dragyrs he’d faced during his Ascent, and picture them five or ten times that size. Even the thought filled him with terror and awe. But he could not deny, there was a part of him that longed to see it. A part of him that wished this didn’t happen have to be done. Malik could feel a similar turmoil in the spirits of most of his fellow Ascendant.

But Aram stepped forward without hesitation. He held his dark blue egg aloft and spoke the words they’d all heard every year for their entire lives.

“I am Faltari. A descendant of the gods. I do not long for an easy life. I choose a sacred path, and I am ready to sacrifice what is required for the good of the clans. May the world be brighter for our burning.”

Aram turned to the raging pyre behind the Ascendant and hurled the dragon egg into the flames.

The blaze engulfed the egg, and for several seconds, nothing happened. Aram stood before the pyre, studying the flames with his hands slack at his sides. Then, a surge of dark blue shot high into the air.

Horns blared across the valley, and the Faltari cheered at the destruction of the most powerful weapon in the world.

Aram turned to the villagers, and recited the final words.

“I have seen the destruction of the worlds of old. And I turn from it. I will not speak of the things I’ve seen.”

From the flames a surge of hish burst forth. It was not visible, but Malik could sense the magic, as Aram was bound to his oath.

Aram looked down at the tattoos on his wrist. The wings of the sacred Dragyr glowed with a fiery light, and his oath was complete.

He pumped his fist, grinning.

Malik was again wracked with a deep sense of sorrow. He gripped his own egg tighter, the resonance within suddenly overwhelming, as though it were reaching for him.

Was that what it was? Or was his spirit playing games with his mind?

Ulgar stepped forward, and continued the ritual. One by one, the newest generation completed their sacrifice. Plumes of purples and reds and oranges exploded from the flames. Oaths seered themselves into the skin of each Faltari woman and man.

Yuri stepped forward and completed the deed and recited the oath.

And then, Riese.

Malik could sense hesitation in her spirit as she stepped up to the pyre. Her ability to hold fierce tenacity and ambition alongside compassion had always impressed Malik. She did not even visibly pause, but as she stepped toward the flames, Malik felt the hitch in her spirit. A lone tear trickled down her cheek.

But she, too, cast her egg into the flames.

Now, it was Malik’s turn, and for a fraction of a moment, he allowed his mind to entertain a scenario.

According to Faltari legend, centuries past, not long after their flight from their previous world, one young shaman named Rayne Seversein had refused the oaths, had stolen a batch of eggs, and left the island seeking power and fame. Some claimed he went on to found the Attican Empire, after a great and fraught journey across this new world.

Malik had no idea if this was history or legend. How had Rayne managed the incantations to hatch the eggs if no one else knew about dragons?

But it didn’t matter. Suddenly, Malik understood why the man might have been so compelled. In his mind, he imagined himself fleeing, journeying the breadth of the world in search of the proper spells, perhaps finding some old hag with ancient tomes from the dead world, hatching the egg, tending to the dragon as it grew from a hatchling to a beast capable of snatching stags up in a dive, to a fire-breathing behemoth capable of destroying entire armies. He pictured himself returning to Faltara on dragonback and running off with a following of other descendants of the gods.

Malik the warrior. The leader. The world shaker.

His vision shrouded in flames, and he was jolted back to reality, to the egg in his hands, which he knew he must destroy.

He closed his eyes for a moment, then, met his father’s gaze. Joren nodded to him, eyes dark holes of black paint, hair braided with the tiny bones of all four of the sacred beasts of Faltara.

Malik shuddered at the thoughts that had nearly overtaken him. He stepped forward, reminded, as he knew was intended, that power and glory was a temptation they all must overcome. He ignored the resonance in the shell between his hands and approached the pyre.

Searing heat pressed against his face, making his eyes water. He drew back, suppressing the screams in his mind, and hurled the egg into the flames.