Vell bent down on both knees inside his hut and prayed silently to his ancestors for strength and wisdom. His breath felt stronger than ever without the whisper leaf to weigh it down. Seven hard years under that sacred herb so that his very breath could summon supernatural power.

He dipped his fingers into the paint his mother had ground for him the day before. Outside of his hut, the local villagers murmured in excitement. They had gathered at the edge of the island, ready to cheer him on for his trial of forty steps.

Fingers caked with red paint, he drew the ceremonial signs across his bare chest.

These were the same symbols his older brother used five years earlier. The symbols were of the ancestors’ language found in ruins throughout the world, the same symbols that glowed blue on the metallic, sacred skiffs they left behind.

Vell grinned, slowing his heartbeat with a purposeful breath to contain his excitement. The mysteries of the skiffs were just another thing he would have to uncover in his pilgrimage. Soon, his feet would grip new sands, his eyes would see strange wonders.

Heavy footsteps crunched against the dirt floor of the hut.

Vell recognized the rhythm and weight of those steps not because of his shamanic training to heighten his senses to superhuman levels, but because a child always recognized their father’s footsteps. His father, Uru, stepped closer, then squatted next to Vell. Uru was a giant of a man, and had the build of a warrior, but he was as gentle as a leaf-scholar.

He patted his son on the back. “Nervous?”

The warm touch of his father’s strong hands on his back gave Vell comfort. Vell cracked a cocky grin. “Was Jadic nervous five years ago?”

His father returned the smile, but gave him a knowing look. “Your brother was twenty five years old with ten years of training under Master Fron. Jadic’s glyph-fist could split a boulder. You’re seventeen with only seven years under the weight of the whisper leaf, and I have yet to see you split a boulder.”

“Master says I’m ready. He says I don’t need to split a boulder if I can ready the leaf in the pool like he can,” Vell assured him, his breath steady and strong. The master shaman’s words were enough for Vell, and they would be enough for his parents.

Uru sighed and dipped his own fingers into the bowl. He traced the paint over Vell's arms and back, completing the ceremonial symbols. Apparently, shamans on different islands used their own set of symbols from their own languages. Up until today, he only had the words of the master shaman, his mother, and visitors who came by the metallic skiffs to go by. Soon, he would see for himself.

His father seemed eager to change the subject. Worry tinged his voice. “Your brother chose the western chains. Less civilization and more monsters than the eastern. Pirates and thieves everywhere.”

“Yes,” agreed Vell, and immediately regretted not containing the enthusiasm in his voice. He had meant to keep his destination a secret before he summoned his first glyph.

Uru frowned, wiping away the paint on his hemp-woven pants. The paint would wash off in the next rain. “Master shaman also took the western chain, but even he took fifteen years to return.”

Master Fron was a legend among the Last Isles, a peerless glyph master. If it took an unparalleled genius like him fifteen years to pilgrimage from Mahana to the central isles, then…

Vell kept silent.

Their island, Mahana, was adjacent to three islands, all of which were grouped together as the Last Isles: the eastern island of Nava, the lost central island shrouded in fog, and the western island of Poli. Each of these islands created a chain that led to the center isles, the midpoint destination of a shaman’s pilgrimage.

To pass the trial of forty steps, the student must glyph-skip from their native island to the next one over. It seemed a simple enough task for anyone who could summon forty glyphs from their lungs, but the waters of between isles were filled with sea beasts, weather that could change in an instant, and waves as taller than palm trees.

It was why the metallic skiffs that moved between islands at the same time every day were invaluable. They guaranteed safe passage along their pre-established ports. Without the ancestors’ sacred skiffs they left behind, traversal between islands would have stopped to a near crawl.

In Vell’s lifetime, ten of Master Fron’s students attempted their forty steps. Only three succeeded. Those who failed died in the ocean between the lands, most likely eaten by a sea beast or devoured by the titanic currents of the ocean.

Of the three who had succeeded, two had chosen to glyph-skip to the eastern island, following that chain of islands toward the center isles. Those two returned from their pilgrimage in three years, becoming shamans for islands on the eastern chain.

Vell’s brother, Jadic, was the first initiate since their master to choose and glyph-skip successfully to the western island, the pride of Mahana. Soon, it would be Vell’s turn.

The journey to come excited him to no end. He kept his breath steady to contain his joy at finally leaving his home island. On his pilgrimage, he would discover strange beasts, meet people of unique languages and cultures, battle with other glyph warriors, and most of all, see the ruins of the ancients. The wonders of the world would be his to discover.

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Of course, Vell would also do his duty as a traveling shaman, healing the sick with his medical knowledge of herbs, creating peace between peoples as best he could, and his most sacred duty of all, to purify the world of fiends.

More footsteps came in from outside the hut, each step decisive, like darts hitting the sand in a steady rhythm.

Vell’s father tensed.

The hut flap opened, and Vell’s mother, Nyala, walked into the room, bearing the dignity of a matriarch and spine of a warrior. Scars riddled her forearms and upper body, records of her battles with beasts of the neighboring islands. Her hands were clenched and shoulders hunched, as if ready to attack.

Before Vell could clasp his hands and bow to his mother in respect, she said, “Wait twelve more moons.”

Straight to the point, like always.The master shaman had spoken that Vell was ready, but it was not enough for his mother. Besides his brother, she was the strongest willed person he’d ever met.

Nyala’s will was the way of land: immovable and steadfast. To clash directly against that will would prove fatal, and he would lose in that argument. Vell chose his father’s way, the way of water, the slow movement eroding stone to sand.

He collapsed his hands, bowed in respect, and spoke calmly. “Thank you for coming to support me in my test. I am forever grateful for you in raising me to become strong enough to be recognized by the master shaman.”

His mother paused. Nyala clearly expected him to fight back. Her expression filled with suspicion, and she circled him in slow steps at the edge of the hut like a jaguar closing in on its prey.

“In a year, you will have more sacred breaths in your lungs, which will make you more than ready to cross any distance without an ancestor’s skiff,” she pressed.

Vell held his tongue.

In a year, she would have him married to one of his childhood friends, ready to groom her to become the next matriarch. It wouldn’t happen right away. She would be unusually soft with him, preparing him meals instead of his father, weaving him new tunics, and picking baskets of whisper leaves for his training. He could see it so clearly. Worst of all, he knew it would work. It was hard to say no to a doting mother.

A year would turn into two, then five. He’d have maybe a hundred sacred breaths by then along with a child or two. Vell would still be a glyph master, but he would never be a shaman. He would never make memories of his own, and would be forced to tell the stories of other brave shamans to put his children to sleep.

Vell swallowed that safe bitter future and smiled. “I am honored to have a mother who wishes me at her side for as long as possible.”

Nyala winced and backstepped. She clearly had prepared herself for an angry young man, but what she got was a son whose expression held nothing but gratitude. His brother Jadic may have inherited a heart of stone from his mother, but Vell received a mind of water from his father.

Uru cleared his throat quietly. Nyala shot him a glare, as if Vell’s words were her husband’s fault.

Vell realized his mother had used this argument with him before, and he had put it to rest just as easily as last time. Why was she bringing it up again, and only minutes before his trial?

Then it dawned on him. She knew something he didn’t.

Vell focused how the air felt on his skin, and it tinged with a pressure that wasn’t there an hour before. Outside, the murmurs of excitement from the islanders had muffled. Something changed.

He quickly walked over to his hut’s flap, and pulled it aside.

Two rows of lit tiki torches created a path from the entrance of his hut through the village and all the way down to the beach. On each side of the path were hundreds of people of his island, all congregated to cheer him on. Most weren’t looking at him, but toward the western island, Poli.

The skies above Poli had darkened. Thunder cracked in the distance as lightning split the skies above the western island. A storm had brewed above Poli. Even a seasoned shaman who had returned from their pilgrimage would think twice before glyph-skipping through a storm.

Nyala spoke behind him, her voice tinged with triumph. “I know you have your heart set on following your brother, to bring two legends to our house. But it seems the ancestors have sent an omen for you to wait. There’s no shame in preparing for another year.”

Anger stoked a fire in Vell’s belly. His training as a shaman took over, and he inhaled slowly through his nose, keeping his heartbeat steady before it climbed. His dream of following in Jadic’s footsteps would not happen, it seemed.

The eastern island of Nava wasn’t an option either. That chain of islands were too littered with mundane civilization and already conquered islands, not to mention the presence of the Navy. Vell did not want to get caught up in the affairs and wars of the Navy of the Central Isles or the Red Hunters.

No, the eastern chain was too peaceful for adventure. But with the western island denied to him by a storm, then, maybe he would have to wait another year.

Vell’s gaze swept the vast, nigh infinite ocean until he landed on the island between Polis and Nava, the island perpetually shrouded in fog, and the only adjacent island with no skiff to connect it to any other island. No one, not even Master Fron, had chosen the center chain of islands as their destination.

Was forty steps even enough to reach its shores? Did it have a shore? Vell had spent his leisure hours over the years reading the waters between the fog island and Mahana. Like many shaman students before him, he had created imaginary paths he could glyph-skip to the island. But it seemed that halfway to the fog island, the waters were too chaotic, too unreadable from the shores of Mahana. Skipping over those waters meant certain death.

But so would staying on this island another year. It wouldn’t be a quick death of his body, but the slow, unbearable death of his dreams, his soul.

Vell clenched his fist, and without turning around, he bellowed loud enough for everyone to hear. “I will take my forty steps today!”

Many in the crowd cried out in shock, but did not tell him to wait. They knew better than to stain this honorable day with their worry. A few children cheered, confused as to why the adults seemed to be so grave on such an exciting day.

Nyala’s footsteps darted on the dirt floor of the hut, but were instantly followed by a single heavy step of Uru. Vell didn’t have to turn around to know his father had stopped his mother from making any more attempts to change their son’s mind.

The crowd grew so silent, punctuated by the cracks of the thunder in the west.

East was never an option. West was denied to him by the forgotten gods, the weather, or even by the ancestors themselves. That was fine by Vell. He stepped out of the hut and let the flap close behind him.

If Vell could not follow Jadic’s path and become a hero like his brother, he would have to make the impossible decision and become a legend.