A raging pang tore at Joren’s being, as though the gods themselves were pouring his spirit out over hot coals, then drawing him up and plunging him into an icy sea.

He collapsed to his knees at the edge of the clearing.

Somewhere, hands clutched at his arms. Somewhere, wind howled, and rain poured from menacing clouds.

Joren felt nothing except the hollow ache of death, enveloping him, slowly wringing his essence from the inside out.

In one mighty onslaught of nature, three souls were ripped from the Spires at once.

Joren did not know how long he knelt there.

The line between the temporal and the eternal blurred. Moments. Hours. Days. All were one.

A glimpse of the Great Truth of existence that was all too easy to forget during the banalities of village life on the island—even for a shaman. A reminder that all their striving—whether for moments or a lifetime—were drops in the eternal ocean. And they all would soon be drawn back to sea.

When Joren opened his eyes, he could already see the mists beginning to dissipate around the lower spires, and he wondered if his spirit had slipped out of his body for a time. Rare, but not unheard of, for a shaman in such sacred moments.

He found Madri’s hand and gripped it tightly, steadying his spirit with the strength of hers. And then, his daughter’s, who also knelt beside him, her warm hand on his shoulder.

“Malik?” Madri whispered, her voice trembling.

God’ s breath! She’d thought that the reason for his collapse, and he’d left his family fearing for gods knew how long.

“No… our son lives.”

Joren squeezed his wife’s hand, and she clutched her chest with the other, relief washing over her.

Joren staggered to his feet, and for the first time since the Ascent began, he withdrew his spiritual gaze from the Spires.

Three souls lost.

Three spirits he must tend.

Three families he must guide through mourning.

It had been over twenty years since his own Ascent, since he’d become a man and taken on the duties of a shaman. Over the years, many of his duties had grown second-nature, even difficult ones.

But the moment of death was one that never grew an easier.

***

Even after the winds truly let up, Malik did not move for what felt like an hour at least. He rode out the last gale in the minimal shelter provided by the tangle of vines, somewhere in the middle of the expanse between spires. That little nook was the only reason he hadn’t joined Petyr in his Final Descent.

It was only happenstance that the gust that had taken the Saber elder’s son had come moments before Malik followed Petyr out into the more exposed section of the bridge.

Malik’s spirit ached with a ferocious anguish he’d never known before. Not even after Derrin’s death.

For that had been a distant thing, before he’d begun the path of the shaman. Before he’d learned to sense the resonance of spirits in his own.

His brother’s death had occurred somewhere beyond his reality, while he waited with all the others in the valley below.

But this…

Malik kept casting out for the boy’s resonance. Clinging to the hope that by some chance, some rare interference of the gods, the Saber boy had landed on one of the other bridges. Or been carried to the next spire.

But he knew in his spirit, Petyr was gone. Snatched up by the spirits of death that had filled that foul storm. It took all the courage Malik had in him to force himself out of his shelter, and climb over the top of the wall of vines.

Wisps of mists still hung in the chasm, but the wind was gone completely. Barely a breeze remained. The sun began to pierce through the veil of clouds, which had turned to shades of white and light grey.

Malik ventured further along the vines, pressing his feet firmly with threads of hish, until he reached the spot where he’d last seen Petyr.

It was so cold. So empty. As though the warmth of the boy’s resonance had never been there at all. Malik gazed out into the mists below, where the great green sprawl of Kalengal Valley came into view.

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Somewhere down there, a boy’s body was shattered and broken. A boy he had helped in the Abyss, only to escort him to his death on this bridge.

Malik never should have come out here. They should have stayed with Ulgar on that ledge. Surely, if he’d tried, he could have convinced Petyr to stay.

There was no way to know. All Malik knew was he should have tried.

The mists dissipated further. The next spire shifted into focus, the true distance becoming clear for the first time. They’d been well more than halfway across the bridge, only twenty yards from the spire. Malik felt the warmth of the sun on his back, and still, he was frozen in place.

Malik hated this feeling. Of bearing the last moments of another.

We all share in this life on the island, his father had taught him. The unique role of the shaman is to share in death as well.

But Malik didn’t want it.

His father was made for this. He could walk right up to a mourning mother, unfazed, but Malik could not bear death for his own kin, let alone for someone else.

It was not just Petyr’s death that tore at his spirit, but his uncle’s, his brother’s. Every damn youth who’d fallen to their deaths from these spires.

And for what?

“Oh, thank the gods!”

Malik didn’t turn at the voice. It felt like something from a dream.

“Shit, brother, you’re nearly across! What are you doing?”

Another voice. Familiar.

A thick calloused hand clasped his shoulder from behind, and he turned.

Yuri Alwensein engulfed him in a hug, his warmth enveloping Malik like a fur blanket. Riese pushed Yuri out of the way and hugged Malik too.

The fog began to lift from his mind, stirred by new confusion.

“How… where?” Cold tears streaked down his cheeks.

He’d assumed Riese was far ahead of him by now. And Yuri… Malik had been so focused on his own plight with Petyr and Ulgar, he hadn’t even considered…

“Found a little cave at the base of that canyon,” Riese said. “Spotted Yuri coming down. He was hollering about a storm coming from the other side. So we holed up.”

“Why in the Abyss did you come out here?” Ulgar’s voice. Malik turned now.

The boy clambered up and over the tangle of vines, shoving his spear over, and Yuri helped him up. Ulgar’s leg was still torn up, but it looked much better. Once on the broad branch of vine, he used Yuri’s bonespear for support.

The vine bridge barely swayed now, only with their movements. This final section was wide enough for two to walk abreast.

The mists thinned further, and Malik could make out the colors of dusk spreading across the skies, beyond the rim of mountains that encircled the sacred valley of the Faltari.

“Where’s Petyr?” Ulgar asked. “Already across?” He looked up and down the next spire for signs of a cloak.

Malik shook his head. “That last gale,” he managed. “H-he’s… gone.”

Speaking the words sent tremors through him. Riese kept close, her hand on his shoulder.

“God’s breath,” Ulgar muttered. “I should’ve… I was pretty out of it till your friends came along. Healed me up enough to get moving again.”

Malik looked to Yuri and Riese.

Riese shrugged. “Shamans aren’t the only ones who help people, you know.”

“Look,” said Yuri, “if it’s all the same to you guys, let’s get off this swinging bridge of death. Er—shit… you know what I mean.”

Riese patted Malik on the arm. “He’s right. Let’s go.”

***

It was astonishing how quickly they finished the crossing. No violent gusts of wind. No rain or fog. Even Ulgar, staggering on his spear-crutch, made the final stretch look easy.

Petyr had come so close.

Soon, they were on the face of the penultimate spire. It was steep, but pocked with regular ledges where they could pause. They all did their best to help Ulgar over the difficult sections.

Far above, Malik heard the sharp cries of dragyrs circling the upper spires. All the climbers must have left their nesting grounds in the Abyss.

The colors of dusk turned to deep greys and swaths of indigo. At the base of the Mountain of Souls, from which the Spires rose, Malik could see the crowds gathering to greet the final climbers. Though they were still a fair distance from the bottom.

They made the final crossing—a sequence of leaps between small floating boulders, like a disjointed staircase. Malik and Yuri took Ulgar’s arms and tried their best to cushion the falls with pulses of hish.

Last, a man-made bridge of wood and rope, and they stood safely at the top of the Mountain of Souls. The remaining descent required careful maneuvering near the peak, before the angle grew gradual and easy. They followed a well-trod path into the forest.

Dusk morphed into peaceful night as they descended into familiar trees near the base of the mountain.

As he neared the end, he focused deeply on the act of drawing in hish, strengthening his body and spirit as best he could to finish with honor. Malik’s body was tired, but it was his spirit that needed rejuvenation most.

He kept picturing Petyr smiling back at him, that final moment before being torn from the face of the world.

You cannot ignore darkness. The only way to move past is to move through.

All these shaman mantras instilled in his mind had never felt more like nonsense.

The four kept close, always on the lookout for jackals or other beasts, but the forest was silent, save for the soft crunch of their leather boots on the sodden ground. Walls of trees went on and on in every direction, and then, all at once, they opened up, and Malik, Riese, Yuri, and Ulgar emerged in the open plains of Kalengal Valley.

They crossed a stream and crested a small hill.

The crowds cheered as they neared. All their people gathered in one place, surrounding them. Hands brushed against Malik’s shoulders, patted his back, congratulating him, asking about the color of his dragon egg.

The egg, Malik mused. He’d hardly thought about it since the storm had come.

Malik kept his hands on the straps of his rucksack, wishing he could disappear, fly past them all like the wights in the Abyss, and be alone.

“Malik!”

His mother’s warm voice cut through the noise of the crowd. Malik looked up, and she ran to him, arms outstretched, and pulled him in to her soft embrace, and he began to sob into her shoulder.

His sister joined them, usually all bright green eyes and mischievous smile, but now, it was mostly relief.

“Gods are good,” his mother whispered. “Gods are good.”

Malik looked up to find his father watching the three of them. Tears streaked his cheeks. Malik released his mother and sister, and his father embraced him.

Malik could not remember an embrace like that from his father before, certainly not in front of all their people.

Joren’s calming spiritual resonance flooded over him, his hand clasped the side of his head, and looked in his eyes with tearful pride.

“You are a man now, my son.”