The people of Faltara gathered in the fields outside the village of Yerida one last time.

Joren’s heart was a boulder in his chest as he made his way forward to the front of the assembly.

The only failure lies in choosing the wrong path.

For so many years, even after he returned from uhmskara, Joren had questioned his path. Told himself it was his responsibility to lead, that tradition had been handed down to him from greater and wiser ancestors.

Perhaps this was true and perhaps not. Maybe the lies had served his people in the past. But anything short of the truth would be their undoing now.

War had come to their tiny corner of the world. Whether it was the first time, he didn’t know. There was so much unknown, so much unknowable about the past. And he supposed it didn’t matter.

For days, his son had not been able to look at him, just as Joren had been unable to look his own father in the eye when he found out the truth. But when Joren announced his intentions to the council, he felt the quickening in his son’s spirit.

Joren ascended the hill alone. None of the chieftains, not even Olma, joined him for the task. He turned to face the people he’d served all his adult life.

Madri and Surel stood near the front.

He was about to begin when Malik pushed his way through the front of the crowd. Joren’s spirit leapt as his son approached.

Malik wore his shaman’s cloak. He hadn’t worn it since the final ceremonies beneath the Spires.

With his son at his side, Joren addressed their people.

For the first time in centuries, they would know the truth. About the Ascent. The eggs. All of it.

***

There was confusion. Outrage. But most of all, there was fear.

Joren did his best to assuage them at the outset, but he knew there was only one way to convey the severity of this circumstance, and ensure that all chieftains were not blamed.

“It is the sworn duty of the shaman to care for the good of our people. Above his own self. Above the interests of the chieftains or any individual clan. Certainly above any tradition of the past. Considering all that has happened, I fear I have failed you all in this sacred duty. Our island, our very way of life is no longer safe. And I hold myself personally responsible. Secrets have kept us safe for many generations, but in my own generation, they have become our undoing.”

The entire valley had grown silent as the crypts beneath the Spires.

“Before any of this,” Joren said, “before the attack, my son spoke against the lies our ancestors have harbored. But I did not have the courage to heed that caution. You all deserved to know the nature of the Ascent, the reason our children—even my own eldest son—were lost. You deserve to know precisely why our island is unsafe now.

“As a boy, my father instructed me that there are certain breaches of trust that are irreparable. And I’ve come to know that to be true. I will help lead those who wish to leave the island, while the empire does what they must. But that will be my last act as your shaman.”

An eruption of murmurs spread across the valley, including the chieftains. None had known Joren’s fullest intentions for this speech. Not even Malik.

Olma stood and raised her hands for quiet. She strode up the hill to join him, and the murmurs died.

“And who will tend our spirits when this is done?”

Joren could feel the tension in his son’s resonance. But there was nothing for it.

“I believe Malik will make an excellent shaman, should he so decide. But I fear much will change when all this is accomplished. Perhaps the very structure of how the Faltari are governed. Perhaps this ought to have happened long ago. For now, we must ensure there is, indeed, a future for our people, before we concern ourselves with building it. War is coming to our island. We set sail tomorrow.”

***

The village of Yerida did not quieten until the fullness of night had descended upon the island.

Urla established a garrison in the crude square outside the village. Where days ago, vendors from many lands had set up their carts, now, it was home to the soldiers of the Bloody Company.

Prior to the council’s decision, Urla had come with only Vera Salyr and a few trusted soldiers. But now that the shaman had prepared the way, the Lady Knight used her godblade to bring Urla’s entire company through to the island of Faltara.

It took half a dozen passages over the course of several hours. By the final passage, Salyr looked like a soldier come from a days-long stint on the front.

Urla clasped the woman’s shoulder. “You should rest, Lady Knight.”

The woman’s face was flushed, hair drenched in sweat. But she shook her head. “I swore to remain at your side, Lady Consul. And I intend to do so.”

Urla knew the woman still blamed herself for what had happened to Campos. Had she remained at his side that night, things might have turned out very different. It was a gnawing feeling they both shared.

“The passage takes a mighty toll,” Urla said. “Even a fool could tell that. And I will need you at your strongest tomorrow, when we march to these Spires. I’ve plenty of my own guards to look after me tonight.”

Salyr looked crestfallen.

“That is an order,” Urla said. “Rest.”

The knight saluted her. “Yes, Lady Consul.”

Urla watched the knight go. It was so strange to be in a position to give orders to a Knight of Caadron. Of course, she’d been a captain in the legions for years, and a lesser officer for years before that. She was no stranger to giving orders, but most of those orders were simply passed down through a long line of command. They were rarely her own.

Now, her orders came direct from the emperor himself. A top secret mission depended on her and the Bloody Company, and the fate of Attica’s most powerful resource was at stake.

“Lady Captain.”

Urla turned to find her young second lieutenant, Caliphus, saluting her.

“Er, sorry, I mean, Lady Consul.”

“It’s alright, Lieutenant. The title still sounds strange to my ears as well. At ease,” she said, and the man relaxed his stance, hand on the hilt of his saber.

“All our squadrons have made camp, Consul. I’ve ordered double guard duty along the perimeter of the camp, and stationed patrols in the village, as well as the Faltari encampment in the fields beyond.

“Good,” said Urla. “Send Roak and a scouting party further down the fjord as well.” She pointed out over the water, where the cliffs dominated the horizon. “Another up by those shrines on the mountainside. And we’ll need a patrol to scout ahead along this Soul Road at first light. Check for any other path from the village as well.”

“Of course, Consul. Anything else?”

“We march at first light. Make sure all duties are equally shared. I expect tomorrow will be a long day.”

“I’ll see it done,” Caliphus said. “Excuse me if I overstep, but many of the troops are wondering about the nature of this mission. What is in these mountains?”

“The future of the empire, Lieutenant. You’ll be briefed with more information when the time is right. You know the drill.”

“Yes, Lady,” Caliphus said. “A strange place for a rebel target. A strange place, period.”

“Aye, Lieutenant. And these are strange times. They will demand our all. Our emperor is counting on us.”

The young academy man stood up tall and saluted once more. “I’m proud to serve at your side again. And I must say, they couldn’t have chosen a better Consul.”

“Caliphus, flattery is not part of your duty.”

He smirked. “Of course.”

“What about my son?” Finally, she asked the question that had been nagging her for hours.

This story has been taken without authorization. Report any sightings.

“He’s been brought to your tent, Lady. Along with a pair of imperial healers.”

“Is he awake?”

“It did not appear so.”

“That will be all, Lieutenant.”

Caliphus marched off, and Urla began to walk the camp as she had done so many times before. Weapons were cleaned, blades sharpened. Cookfires were tended, and rations packed. All for a top secret mission in the mountains at the edge of the world, against an unknown enemy.

Even Urla did not know what they might face. How far did this rebellion reach? Athanasius seemed to believe it remained a fledgling operation, but if more Valucian lords were involved…

The Chardonians, at least, would not think of supporting Rykus. By now, the first dragons had surely struck, along with an elite force that had required all the other Knights of Caadron, save one other, who was tasked with negotiating with the Valucian lords.

So much at once.

Urgent energy permeated the camp, even through small acts of preparation. Despite the vague orders. Despite the fact that most of them had likely learned this island existed only a few hours ago. It was the sort of mission any imperial company dreamed of.

They’re among the finest soldiers in all the empire, she thought.

But it felt different now, as Consul. After the events of the attack. Urla felt separate from the men and women of the Bloody Company in a way she’d never felt before.

As Urla passed among the troops, her soldiers saluted, eyes drifting to the new uniform she wore. Gold pauldrons with crimson frills, the imperial white dragon sigil emblazoned upon her leathern chest plate. The uniform of a high-ranking officer. Few made verbal acknowledgment, though they all nodded and smiled proudly as she passed.

Whatever this mission was, it came from the emperor, who had chosen their own captain to replace Consul General Campos. And they carried themselves with a shared pride.

For Urla, it was mixed. Not only because of the tragedies clouding her mind. But the finality of this separation. Whatever happened, she expected this would be her last hurrah with the Bloody Company.

Urla reached the gates of the village, crude doors made of split snowpine. The Attican guards ushered her through.

A few Faltari villagers still scurried about, but for the most part, the place was silent. Most of the Faltari were camped in the fields beyond the village, but the place was quiet, even in the distance.

She stopped outside the pillared entrance to the village temple. The shaman’s wife sat on the top step, smoking a long, narrow pipe. The woman eyed Urla carefully.

“Madri, is it?” Urla asked. They’d met briefly during the festival, before the world turned on its end.

The shaman’s wife looked pensive, perturbed even. Brow furrowed, jaw tight. “It’s the middle of the night. Hasn’t your empire done enough today?”

It was a feeling she expected most Faltari shared, though none yet had given voice to the sentiment.

Urla dipped her chin. “I know all this has taken a fierce toll, madam, but it is my prayer that none of your people will come to harm. It is why we’ve acted so—”

“Oh, we’ve already come to plenty of harm,” Madri said. “More than you could ever know.”

“I’m sorry for that, from one mother to another.”

Madri shrugged. “Your son was here at the festival. Where is he now? Hiding back at your capital?”

Urla grimaced. “No, madam. My boy is here. Ruan… has not woken since the attack. Since that Valucian traitor tried to take him along with the Faltari girl they abducted. If not for your husband, my son would be lost the same as Riese Torendeil.”

The woman’s face softened at the remark. There was a bond among mothers that transcended even the gravest differences. “Your healers…”

“They say there’s nothing that can be done. That’s why I’ve come tonight, in truth. I know it is much to ask after all that’s happened, madam, but—”

“Call me Madri,” she said, with a wave of her hand. “And from a mother to a mother, I’m sorry to hear about your son. Much as I wish you weren’t here at all. Much as I wish none of this had happened. My husband is tending to our people at the moment. Many prayers are being burnt tonight, as you might imagine.”

The notion was odd to Urla. In Attica, prayers were given to priests, who would offer sacrifices in order to usher the blessings of the Heavenly Mother and Father.

“I heard Joren is stepping down as shaman,” Urla said.

“We’ll see what comes to pass,” said Madri coolly. “Anyway, not until after all this is over, and until then, Joren will continue his duties.”

Urla could sense there was tension over the matter. “Well, if he’s busy, I’ll come back later. If you wouldn’t mind letting him know I—”

“Stay, he’s nearly done.”

“Are you… sure?”

“It’s rude in Faltara to question the sincerity of an invitation, you know.” Madri gestured to the steps, a slight grin teasing at the edge of her lips. “Sit.”

Urla did, awkward though it might be. It was not lost on her how the Faltari viewed all this. They might not be friends of Valucian rebels, but there was little love for Attica here, least of all after what had transpired, and the revelations that had come to light. Everywhere she’d seen, these people looked angry, confused, distraught.

“I do not relish the thought of leaving,” Madri said after a silence.

“Must you leave?”

“All of us? No, I’m sure a few will stay. Me? It would be seen as an act of dissension if I were to remain while my husband led our people away from these shores.”

“You don’t believe they should go?”

“I don’t believe we should lead your kind straight to our most sacred place. But it seems it’s been desicrated for a long time. So what does it matter? What’s sacred is lost now.”

Urla didn’t respond. The next silence stretched longer.

The door burst open, and the young shaman emerged. When Malik met Urla’s gaze, he glared and turned to his mother.

“What’s she want?”

“To see your father,” said Madri.

“I’m sure it can wait until—”

“It’s about her injured son, Malik.”

The boy hesitated. “Oh.”

“Don’t jump to insinuations until you know all the information. You’ve already been living at the edge of your spear too much in the past day.”

Urla watched the exchange carefully. The whole family seemed to be at the edge of their spears. The son harbored bitterness toward Urla too, that was plain to see.

But the mention of Ruan triggered something in the boy she could not quite place her finger on. She decided to offer a little more.

“Malik, you helped Ruan get Campos to safety. I owe you a debt of gratitude.”

Malik grimaced, seeming to be torn between anger and something else. Remorse? Sympathy?

The boy dipped his head. “It was my duty, Lady Consul, that is all. And it accomplished nothing, it seems.”

“I’m not so sure about that. You risked your life to save my friend and mentor. It is not nothing in my eyes.”

“How is your son?”

Urla told him.

Malik pondered this for a moment. “I’ll fetch my father.”

“I’d hate to pull him from his duties.”

Malik shrugged. “The last of the Faltari left half an hour ago. He asked to be left alone.”

Madri scowled. “I’ll be the one to fetch him, then.”

***

Joren knelt in the secluded prayer hall near the back of the temple. The walls were covered with runes, much like the Hall of the Ancients at the base of the Mountain of Souls.

A carefully transcribed copy of their most sacred document, The Crossing of Worlds, was laid out on a pedestal at the front of the chamber, before the engraved mural of the All Mother and All Father, both pointing the way toward a stone archway in the Dying World.

The mural was a magnificent work etched into the walls, painted with dyes harvested from various kinds of shellfish. It was older than this temple. Hundreds of years old, according to tradition, though it had been restored and repainted many times over the generations.

A dim voice in the back of Joren’s mind had always wondered what the original looked like, how it compared to the depiction he’d knelt before all his life.

The gods ushering them through, guiding them, choosing their people to start over in a new land. In the days when gods still roamed the Dying World as ancient souls.

A prayer cloth burned softly on embers in the hearth, and Joren read a passage from The Crossing for what must have been the hundredth time:

From darkness, we followed a guiding light. Across plains of obsidian stone. Across wine dark seas. Across worlds themselves.

From death to new life, we crossed, filled with strength from the Father, courage from the Mother. Crossing over to an unknown future. A destiny that would transcend generations.

We were chosen. To be a people set apart. Children of the gods. Let us become that guiding light. Sons and daughters of the flame.

And may the world be brighter for our burning.

Shivers ran down Joren’s spine. It was a passage that had haunted him all his life. It contained so many unspoken questions. Why had his people come to this place? How had they come?

It was a passage that seemed to contradict the Crossing described in Faltari history, which required no crossing of seas. Shamans past proposed that this referred to other explorations, the expansion from Faltara to the other corners of the world, which came after. Perhaps they had ventured from here and returned.

Yet, no other nation in Îrithèa believed the Crossing originated from Faltara, or even the northern regions of the world.

In his youth, the sacred passage had instilled doubt about all his people believed—their version of the Crossing, their set apartness, their very way of life.

And yet, that final part about burning to make the world brighter, as children of the gods. That had always lingered in Joren’s mind. The nagging question it demanded.

Have YOU lived up to this, Joren? Have your people?

Footsteps resounded behind him. But Joren didn’t move. He knew those steps. Slow, methodical, with a bit of a shuffle across the uneven stones of the hall.

Madri’s hand brushed his shoulder from behind, and she knelt beside him. Her hand found his, and her warm spirit washed over him. He did not deserve her, that much he knew.

“That damn passage will be the death of us all,” she said, chuckling darkly.

Joren did not know what to say. His wife was always been the better communicator of the two of them. Joren could tend to mourning families and address their entire people, and the words flowed as though capturing the gods’ every breath. But put him before an angry wife, and he drew inward.

Madri always seemed to know what to say, to understand the things he bottled up.

“I’m not angry with you for your decision to step down as shaman,” Madri said, releasing his hand. “I’m hurt that you did not live up to that damned passage with me. I understand why all this has remained a secret from our people for so long. But from me?”

“Madri, I—”

“That’s silly. Yes, I know. And bloody selfish.”

“It’s not,” said Joren.

Madri drew closer to him, wrapped her arm around his shoulder, and looked over the sacred parchment. “Children of the gods. Do you believe it’s true?”

Joren shrugged. “Who could truly say after all this time? Most shamans of the past would say yes. Though not all. Few in all this world wield magic as our people do, and in that way perhaps we are special. But magic is not unique to us by any stretch of the imagination. I struggle to believe that we’re truly uniquely blessed. We’ve simply held to a tradition and close bloodlines… For a time, I thought it was bullshit.”

“And now?” Madri whispered.

He sensed she was agonizing over this too. Perhaps many of their people were.

“Now… perhaps it is better understood as a metaphor for our people. A calling. A bar to reach for. That’s what I believe this passage is truly about.”

“Let the world be brighter for our burning... makes you wonder if we were ever meant to remain on Faltara, doesn’t it? Hiding from the sufferings of the rest of the world to hold tight to our traditions. If the flame’s a metaphor, I fear we’ve been nothing but fading smoke.”

Joren looked his wife in the eyes. A tear streaked the left side of her face. He reached up and brushed it away, and she pressed her face against his hand. He pulled her into an embrace, both of them trembling.

“I thought you didn’t want to leave,” he said into her dark curls.

Madri pulled back to look at him. “All your life, you’ve been a man of conviction. I’m not angry about leaving. I’m angry you lied to me, to all our people. I’m angry it took this tragedy for you to do the right thing.”

Joren nodded, her words piercing deeper than any blade ever could.

“This is the right path, my shaman. My love. And I will follow you to Valgland. I’d follow you to the edge of the world, if it came to it. I’d follow you into death.”

Joren clutched her tight, tears streaming, body shuddering with silent sobs.

Gods, he loved this woman.

They held each other for some time. Eventually, Madri pulled back.

“I’ve truth of my own, I need to share, but first, there’s a mother whose son needs tending.”