The air sharpened with every step, stinging my fingers to the bone and biting my cheeks. Each breath of the icy wind tasted like iron, the weight of the climb pressing my lungs. Below us, the drums pounded relentlessly, each beat vibrating through the rock underfoot, syncing with the tension that coiled tighter in my chest.

Kael reached the base of the statue first, his red hair catching the faint glow if the fires below. He hauled himself into the ledge, pausing for just a moment to glance back at us. His usual grin was gone, replaced by something harder more focused.

I didn’t need to tell him what to do, he already knew. He reached into his pack, checking the supplies we’d prepared, his movements quick and practiced.

I pulled myself up after hum, muscles burning with every step. The climb had been grueling, but this? This was what we’d come here for. The statue loomed above us, its jagged crown outlined against the deep blue of the night sky. The firelight below danced across its stone surface, making it seem alive, it’s shadow shifting like something watching us.

Cynane pulled herself up with a grunt. Her breathing was uneven, but she didn’t even pause. Kael and I had offered to carry her supplies, but she still insisted on pulling her weight, literally and figuratively.

“You’re slower than usual,” Kael teased, leaning back against the ledge with that lazy smirk he loved so much. His breaths came quicker than he’d like to admit, but of course, he’d rather keel over than show it. “Need me to tie a rope to you next time?”

Cynane didn’t look at him as she hauled herself over the edge, her movements deliberate and efficient despite her limp. She adjusted her brace, tugging her pack into place before replying. “I’d rather tie it to you,” she shot back, dusting off her hands. “Save myself the trouble of watching you stumble.”

Kael barked a laugh. “Careful, or I’ll trip just to test that theory.”

“Don’t tempt me,” Cynane said. Her voice was dry, but there was a sharpness to it that always left Kael thinking twice before he pushed her too far.

She turned and started ahead, her steps careful, methodical, like she was counting the rocks beneath her feet. As I followed her, I caught the faint markings etched into the stone here and there, small scratches in places no one but her would think to look.

“Good thing you found this route,” I called after her, keeping my tone light. “This would have taken days if it weren’t for you.”

She didn’t stop or turn, but I saw her pause just slightly, the barest flicker of hesitation in her step. “It’s not that hard,” she muttered. “Anyone could’ve done it.”

“Not like you,” I said, catching up to her. “You mapped out every rock on this trail, Nane. That’s why we’re not stuck halfway up some dead end. Don’t act like it’s nothing.”

Her brow furrowed, her hand tightening briefly on her pack strap. “I just wanted to make sure it was safe,” she said quietly.

“And you did,” I replied.

Kael had been trailing behind us, but now he jogged up to join in, his face half a grin. “She’s right, you know,” he said, gesturing to the path ahead. “Without you, I’d probably have walked us straight off the cliff by now.”

Cynane rolled her eyes. “Tempting thought.”

Kael clutched his chest mockingly. “Wounded. See how she treats the guy who offers to carry her pack?”

“You didn’t offer,” Cynane shot back. “You said I should just hand it over because I’m too slow to keep up.”

“Same thing,” Kael said, grinning wider.

I elbowed him as we walked. “Keep it up, and she’ll ‘accidentally’ map out a shortcut to the bottom of the cliff for you.”

“Trust me,” Cynane muttered. “I already have.”

We laughed, but there was a warmth beneath the teasing that felt steady, even as the mountain wind bit at our skin. Despite her words, Cynane’s pace was deliberate, unyielding. She didn’t hesitate, not once, even as the path narrowed and the jagged rocks made every step treacherous.

Kael glanced at me as we followed her, his expression softening. “She doesn’t give herself enough credit, does she?”

“Never has,” I replied. “But that’s what we’re here for.”

Cynane glanced back, frowning slightly when she caught us looking. “What are you two plotting now?”

“Nothing,” I said quickly, though Kael’s grin gave us away.

She shook her head, muttering something under her breath, but I caught the faintest flicker of a smile before she turned back to the path.

The wind cut sharper now, curling around the cliffs and biting at our skin. It carried faint echoes. Drums, chants, the low murmur of voices carried up from the square below.

We were getting close.

Kael glanced over his shoulder, his grin fading as the sounds grew louder. He didn’t say anything, but his hand drifted toward his knife, his fingers brushing the hilt like a reflex. Cynane noticed too. She stopped briefly, scanning the path ahead before pressing on, her jaw tight.

“Keep your voices down,” I whispered. “We’re close enough to the square now they’ll hear us.

The square was full. The people moved in a frantic, desperate rhythm. Arms raised, bodies swaying to the beat of the drums. The chanting rose and fell like waves, carried up by the wind and even from here, I could feel it.

The Zurahs led the ritual, their movements precise and solemn, as if each step carried the weight of generations. They were cloaked in dark ash from head to toe, the gritty black powder clinging to their skin like a second layer. Golden patterns traced intricate lines across their bodies, swirling over their arms and faces in shapes that seemed alive in the firelight. The designs symbolized the duality of our existence, the ash represented mortality, the burden of the Hollows’ cursed state, while the gold threads were said to echo the divine spark was said to be stolen from us.

Their faces were hidden behind veils of soot and shadow, but their voices rose clear and unwavering, guiding the chants that echoed through the mountain. The Zurahs were both revered and feared, keepers of the old ways, bound to the rituals that begged for salvation even as the gods stayed silent. They were also skilled hunters, their movements so fluid and precise that they seemed to defy the limits of the human body, an uncanny grace that left even the most seasoned warriors in awe.

The elders sat above the square on a raised stone platform carved into the mountainside. From there, they could see everything, the fire, the Zurahs dancing in their ash-streaked gold, and the kneeling crowd murmuring their endless pleas. Their perch was both symbolic and literal, a reminder that they judged from above, distant from the rest of us, yet deciding everything for us.

Malrik stood at the center of their formation, unmistakable in his rigid posture. His robes were a deeper gray than the others’, edged with gold patterns that caught the firelight and gave him an almost spectral glow. His face was harsh, carved with lines that told of a life lived under the weight of too many losses. His jaw, sharp and unyielding, was perpetually clenched as if even his words would betray weakness. The firelight caught the silver streaking his dark beard and the thin scar that cut across his left cheek, a reminder of the last time he’d faced real danger.

But he wasn’t looking at the fire or the Zurahs. He wasn’t focused on the ceremony or even the cries of the Hollow people below. His attention, as always, was elsewhere, on me, on Kael, on Cynane. He didn’t know exactly where we were, but I could feel his gaze searching, sharp and unforgiving.

Malrik was devoted to Ashora I couldn’t deny that. He carried the weight of our history on his back, determined to drag us toward something better, something safer. But he looked inward when he should’ve been looking outward. He’d rather chase rebellious kids through the shadows than direct his anger where it belonged: at the people who kept us crawling in the dirt.

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Behind him, the other elders murmured in quiet conversation, their voices too low to carry over the wind. They sat in a semicircle around him, their faces as impassive as stone. Their robes, dyed deep gray and edged with gold, blended into the weathered rock of the dais. Unlike Malrik, they barely diverted their gaze from the fire or the ritual below, their focus fractured and distant.

Beneath their platform, the Hollow people formed a sea of bowed heads and trembling hands. They knelt in tight circles, their bodies pressed together for warmth against the biting wind. Some swayed with the rhythm of the drums, their voices hoarse from chanting. Others clutched at each other, their faces streaked with ash and tears. It wasn’t just a ritual, it was mourning. They weren’t only praying for salvation; they were pleading for the dead to forgive them for still breathing.

A sharp cry broke through the chants, a woman wailing a name. “Ena!” The sound pierced the air, sharp and raw, splitting the ritual like a blade.

Ena.

The name hit me like a blow, and for a moment, the jagged edge of the stone beneath my fingers felt distant, as if I’d lost my grip on the world itself. Ena’s face rose unbidden in my mind. Her smile, the warmth of her voice, the way her hands never stopped moving as she worked, mending clothes or weaving baskets that somehow always seemed brighter than the others.

She wasn’t the only one Cyris had taken. Not this time, not ever. The last raid had burned through us like a sickness, leaving Ashora’s alleys filled with bodies wrapped in coarse cloth, the air thick with the stench of death. Ena had been one of too many. How many more of us had to die before the gods opened their eyes?

My jaw clenched as I forced myself to keep climbing, the stone scraping against my fingers. I couldn’t let myself look down. Not at the faces streaked with ash and grief. Not at the firelight catching on that woman’s tears as she cried for Ena. If I looked, I’d falter, and I couldn’t afford to falter now.Ena had been the closest thing to light in this place. When I was little, she’d stitched up my tunic when I tore it, her hands steady as she said, “You’ll outgrow this soon, Aya, but not before you find another rock to trip over.” She’d given me scraps of her bread when I refused the gray paste we called porridge, and when the nights felt too heavy to bear, she’d tell me stories. Not of gods or curses, but of laughter and sunlight, of a world that felt too far away to believe in.

She was stubborn, too. Always volunteering to accompany the groups venturing to the outskirts, even when it wasn’t her turn. Not for the herbs or the game they brought back, but for the golden berries she loved so much. They were rare—bitter to most, but she swore they were sweet if you caught them just right. I used to think it was just another one of her stories, a little shard of hope she wanted to pass on. But now, I wasn’t so sure.

And now she was gone. Just like the others. Just like everyone who dared to hope for more.

The Zurahs’ chants carried on below, rising like smoke into the night, but I didn’t hear the harmony anymore. I heard the cracks in it, the way the people faltered, their voices wavering under the weight of their grief. They clung to this ritual, to this begging and bowing, as if it could make up for the lives lost. But what good was tradition when it left us shattered? What good was obedience when it cost us everything?

My fingers curled tighter around the stone, the ache in my arms sharp and immediate. “How many more?” I whispered, the words swallowed by the wind. How many more names would we cry before we stopped? Before we stood?

Ena had deserved better. All of us did.

I climbed higher, my breath coming faster as the firelight below blurred into a mass of flickering shadows. I wasn’t climbing for salvation or forgiveness. I was climbing for Ena, for every name cried out in the dark, for every face Cyris took while we knelt and begged for gods who never came.

The cries and chants blurred together, rising in a crescendo that cut through the night. But I didn’t look down. Not at the Zurahs, not at the people. My grip on the stone tightened, my vision tunneling as I focused on the path ahead. If I stopped now, if I let myself falter, Ena’s name. And all the others, would fade into the ash and wind.

And I couldn’t let that happen.

Malrik didn’t flinch at the cries. He didn’t flinch at anything. To him, this was normal. Acceptable. Kneeling was in our blood, a habit carved into our bones from generations of waiting—waiting for salvation, for forgiveness, for gods who never came, for power that would never be returned. Malrik thought our survival depended on it, that every bowed head was a shield against extinction. I clenched my fists, nails biting into my palms, as the weight of his belief pressed against my chest.

But I couldn’t see it that way. Not anymore. If the gods cared for us, they wouldn’t leave us with empty hands and hollow hearts. They wouldn’t watch as Cyris burned our homes, as they dragged our people away like cattle. This wasn’t protection. This wasn’t mercy. It was surrender disguised as faith.

My eyes flicked to the statue ahead, its jagged crown catching the firelight like it ruled the night itself. Mamba. That’s what they called him, the god who’d turned his back on us centuries ago. The one the elders still begged for salvation, still offered our broken voices to, as if we hadn’t already lost enough. The people called it faith. I called it delusion.

Whatever it took, I’d tear it down. I’d uncrown my god. Leave the pieces for Malrik and the others to scrape from the ground, and remind the Hollow people what it meant to stand.

I gripped the rough stone, my fingers aching from the climb. The drums below thudded like a distant heartbeat, but here, at the base of the towering statue, everything felt quieter. Muted, like the mountain itself held its breath.

Cynane and Kael stayed below, their forms blending into the jagged shadows of the cliffside. Kael adjusted the rope tied to the base of the statue’s arm, his movements quick but purposeful. Cynane leaned against the rock, hunched as she worked to catch her breath. They didn’t look up, but I could feel their focus. Their belief in me was a steady force, lifting me with every step as I climbed the stone giant.

The statue of Mamba loomed above, its cracked stone face half-lit by the firelight below. The jagged crown atop its head gleamed, catching the flickering flames like it was meant to be worshipped. The figure itself was imposing, carved with an unnatural symmetry that made it feel alive. Its outstretched arms open, as if inviting us to kneel. Its surface was weathered, pitted by years of wind and ash storms, yet the expression carved into its face was eerily untouched.

Not benevolent. Not merciful.

It was empty.

The hollow eyes stared past me, unseeing, uncaring, and the sight of them sent a sharp pulse of anger through my chest. This was the face of our god? This was the being my people groveled before, offered prayers and blood to? This was what we had left after centuries of suffering, stone and silence.

I hauled myself up onto the ledge, the frigid air slicing against my cheeks. My cloak snagged on the edge of the statue’s arm, and I tugged it free, my eyes fixed on the crown. It was massive up close, its jagged edges almost brutal in their design. The gold plating had dulled over the years, tarnished with streaks of blackened ash, but it still gleamed like it held some kind of power. The weight of it wasn’t just physical. It was symbolic, a reminder of what they thought we owed.

For a moment, my hands hesitated on the rope.

Abba’s voice echoed in my mind, not angry but tired, the way it always sounded when we argued. “Defiance lights the fire, but it’s the ashes you have to live with.”

He never told me to stop, not outright. He didn’t try to crush the fire in my chest the way the elders did. But he didn’t stoke it, either. To him, I was still just a child playing at rebellion, too stubborn to see the bigger picture. Maybe he was right.

But that didn’t matter now. What mattered was that people were dead—children, parents, friends, because Cyris had decided our lives were worth less than their resources. Abba could stitch wounds and comfort the grieving, but even he couldn’t bring back the lives they’d stolen. Kneeling hadn’t saved us. It never would.

I glanced down at Kael and Cynane. Kael gave me a sharp nod, his expression steady, and Cynane’s eyes flicked to mine, uncertain but resolute. They were here for me, for this. I had to see it through.

The air around me stilled, the sound of the drums fading into the background. My own heartbeat pounded in my ears, steady but deafening, as if the mountain itself had paused to watch. I reached for the crown, my fingers brushing the tarnished surface. It was cold, impossibly heavy even before I’d lifted it. My chest tightened, the weight of the moment pressing down as I gripped its edge.

This is it, I thought, swallowing against the dry air.

I turned my head slightly, catching Kael’s gaze one last time. His voice was a low murmur, meant only for me. “Make it count.”

The words hit harder than they should have, like an unspoken reminder that there was no turning back.

I dragged the crown, its jagged edges scraping against the stone as I shifted it to the ledge. My muscles burned from the effort, my breaths coming shallow and quick. For a moment, I let my gaze drift to the firelight below, to the faces turned upward in hope or desperation. My people. My friends. Abba. I didn’t want to think of what this would mean for him, how much harder I was making his fight.

But I couldn’t stop now.

“MAMBA WON’T SAVE YOU!”

I didn’t stop. My voice rose again, harsher now, fueled by the memory of too many faces. “Mamba didn’t save them! He won’t save any of us! Your prayers are nothing but whispers to the void!”

I yelled, the words ripping from my throat like a war cry. My voice echoed off the stone, carried down to the square below, and for the first time, the chants faltered. The Zurahs paused mid-step, their ash-covered forms turning as one toward the sound. The people looked up, faces pale with shock or fear, their voices dying on their tongues. Even the elders stirred, Malrik rising to his feet as his sharp gaze zeroed in on the statue.

I shoved the crown with all my strength, my muscles straining as it tipped over the edge. The jagged gold tumbled downward, catching the firelight as it fell, the sound of its impact shattering the silence. Sparks flew as it crashed into the platform below, scattering ash and embers in all directions.

For a moment, everything stood still. No chants, no drums, just the echo of the crown’s fall reverberating through the square.

I didn’t know it yet, but I’d just written the first line of my damnation.