Chapter 2: Damath

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  Near Xatal, Month: 94, Year: 226.

  The young man walked in silence, his bare feet sinking into patches of slush and half-thawed moss. The ground was a mottled skin of melting snow and black earth, cold enough to sting with every step, sharp enough to cut where the skin had already split. His breath curled from his lips in pale coils. His tangled black hair clung wetly to his shoulders, weighed down with mist and sweat.

  This was the third day, nearly the fourth, since the pilgrimage began. This rite was more than a march through snow and hunger; it was a path he had chosen to endure, the first step toward embracing the faith of Oltikán. To take it, he had abandoned the faith of Kaspea, the goddess of his people, the one his mother had prayed to in difficult nights, the one his master showed unwavering devotion to, the one that had received his ancestors in the heavens when their time on this world had come to an end. And though the stones bit cold into his bare feet, it was the memory of that choice that made him feel coldest. A part of him still ached with regret for the renunciation, yet he repeated to himself that it was necessary. Necessary for the promise he had sworn. Necessary if his people were ever to have a home again.

  The rest of the pilgrims moved like ghosts through the fog-bound forest, their silence not peaceful, but tired. Around him, he heard the squelch of feet in snowmelt, the soft wheeze of frostbitten lungs. They were all exhausted, but none more visibly so than him.

  Even among the worn-out travelers, he stood out. Not just because he towered over them all, or because of the antlers rising from his head like branches from a tree trunk, or the luminous blue scales that shimmered in patches across his skin. It was the look in his eyes: raw, hollow exhaustion, anchored by unyielding resolve.

  None of the pilgrims had eaten since the journey began. Only water, ice-cold from mountain streams had passed their lips. No sleep had offered true rest. At night, the wind cut through trees and flesh alike, and their thin protection had long ceased to hold back the harsh weather of the Sutherlands.

  Still, they walked. All of them.

  And as they walked, Damath remembered the promise. Soft, solemn words spoken beneath the dim stars of the refugee camp where he had been reborn and grown up in. What was meant as a temporary shelter had stretched into countless long nights. Stone by stone, tent by tent, until it began to feel permanent, as if some had already surrendered the hope of ever returning home. But not him.

  Damath had never walked the soil of the Covean continent, not on these feet at least. What he knew came from the voices of others: stories of boundless green plains, of coasts gilded by sunlight, of birds that sang in hues beyond imagining, and of herds of gentle beasts moving like rivers across the grasslands. Yet something deeper stirred within him. Though memory failed, his spirit carried echoes of other lives lived there, distant, unseen, but leaving behind the ache of a home long lost.

  And so, he had made a promise to himself. One day, he would take his mother, his brothers and the rest of his folks home, he would breathe the air of the plains, and someday run behind his future children in those boundless grasslands. He would make this dream a reality, no matter how far he had to walk or how long he had to fast. That promise gave his body weight, his steps rhythm. One foot. Then another. And another.

  And then, through the veil of mist and trees, the dark forest broke open. At last he saw it: a pale and distant tower, rising from the far end of the valley like a needle against the gray horizon. The shrine.

  A shiver passed through the group. Eyes widened. One pilgrim clenched their fists to their chest and began to bounce in place, too tired to jump properly but trying anyway.

  How do they still have the strength to jump? he wondered.

  Not that he could ask. They weren’t allowed to speak, not since they left.

  That, at least, was a mercy. He didn’t care to know what the others were thinking. Especially about him.

  Damath moved slowly, one step at a time, while the others began to quicken their pace. Let them hurry. This was not a race. The shrine edged closer with every breath, slower than he might have hoped, but it was steadily coming closer.

  Life clustered around the shrine in strange, alien beauty. Towering, tree-like growths stood tall across the valley, their limbs black as obsidian, adorned with bright red blossoms that burned like coals against the pale sky. But they weren’t trees. Weren’t even plants. He knew that. Reborn in the Southernlands, he had grown up among such lifeforms. But to the others, those like his mother and siblings, born across the sea on the Covean continent, these things were otherworldly, monstrous even. Even his master had mentioned that she'd never seen anything like them until they arrived on this continent as refugees.

  When he reached the edge of the village, people turned to look. They always did. He was strange to them, a head taller than the tallest among them, and that was generous. He had to duck beneath the overhanging roofs, careful not to catch his antlers on low beams and dangling charms. This place had clearly not been made for someone like him.

  He could tell from their expression, most of the Haksari here didn’t want him among them. They pulled their children away from him as he passed by, hid their precious belongings away from sight. They made their distrust clear, but their faith bound them to tolerance. Their god, Oltikán, had stated it clearly in their sacred texts: No one was to be treated differently based on the nature of their birth.

  And so they tolerated him. Not welcomed. Not embraced. Merely endured.

  He reached the sacred path, lined with Floridian trees, or what the locals called trees. They bore no green; to the touch, they felt more like stone than wood. They didn’t drink sunlight or sway in the breeze. Instead, they drew warmth from the earth, thriving off volcanic minerals in the soil. Their heat lingered in the air like an invisible fire, warming the path despite the snow.

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  At last, he stood at the entrance of the shrine. Some of the pilgrims had already arrived, kneeling beneath the silent archways, heads bowed in reverence. In their hands, they held bright red seeds as offerings. Among these people, sacred symbols of growth, devotion, and promise.

  Damath had studied their traditions and now copied the movements of those before him. He stooped at the fountain of warm water springing from the stone at the entrance, washing his hands and feet. The relief of that heat seeping into his frozen skin was greater than anything he had felt in days. Cleansed, he stepped forward without a word and joined the kneeling figures.

  The cold stone pressed against his knees as he lowered himself, drawing the seed from his bag. It pulsed warmly in his palm, as if it had a heart. He set it gently before him, bowed his head, and joined the silence.

  The acolytes entered, robed in modest, ash-colored attire that trailed softly along the stone floor. No gold, no ornament, only the humble weight of duty. They moved from pilgrim to pilgrim, collecting the red seeds with a bowed head and quiet hands. With each offering, they spoke a prayer, low, rhythmic words in the old dialect of Oltikán.

  Then, the high priest entered, and behind them came something stranger.

  A shimmer coiled at his shoulder, a beast of heat and light, barely tethered to the physical world. Its body flickered like embers beneath iridescent feathers. As it perched, the air around it shimmered with warmth. It looked around, then took flight, gliding above the kneeling pilgrims until it landed in front of Damath.

  He stared, holding his breath.

  A celestial.

  The beast spread its wings with fluid grace. Radiant warmth flowed from its body, like standing too close to embers. Where that warmth touched him, his pain melted away. The fire in his joints, the raw bite of frost on his toes, the angry red bruises blooming along his shins, all faded. His skin mended. The ache eased. The beast’s wings folded, and it returned to the priest’s side without a sound.

  He studied his hands, now smooth and whole, and flexed his fingers in disbelief. It was real. The celestials, their mysterious power, all of it. Whatever he sought… he finally felt he was on the right path.

  Then, one by one, the pilgrims rose.

  As instructed, each spoke their name aloud, the first words any of them had pronounced since the journey began. Each one declared where they had been born. Their voices were hoarse, fragile from disuse, yet carried strength. With each name, the silence of the shrine broke a little more.

  Then it was his turn.

  He rose, slowly, towering above the priest, the acolytes and the other aspirants, like a tree among bushes. The room felt suddenly smaller, the walls closer. His antlers almost brushed the arched architecture above him.

  He looked forward. His voice came low, rough, but steady.

  “Damath,” he said. “From the Covean continent.”

  The room stilled for a heartbeat.

  Murmurs rose among the pilgrims like wind through distant branches, fragmented voices overlapping, indistinct, impossible to follow. Damath caught no clear words, only a wash of tones: surprise, curiosity and unease.

  Damath did not understand the sudden unease, he had only done as instructed. Although he had been reborn in the Sutherlands, the place of his actual birth was somewhere in the Covean continent. There was no deception in his words, he had just spoken the name of the land where he was truly born, the land of his mother, his blood, the land where his promise would take him.

  The high priest raised a hand.

  The sound fell quiet at once. A few gentle words followed, calm and practiced, calling for composure. After a respectful prayer, the priest extended his arm in invitation. The shrine had prepared a banquet, he said, a gesture of welcome for those who had made the long journey on foot.

  The hall was not grand, but it was warm. Firelight flickered in hearths carved from dark stone. Plates were already set. Trays of food, plain but nourishing, lined the tables, alongside pitchers filled only with water.

  Damath walked tall, the pain gone, but the uncertainty lingered.

  From now on, he would have to live as they lived. Pray as they prayed. Even eat as they ate.

  He sat at the far edge of the long table, food and drink laid out before him. Plain bread, boiled roots, something steaming with herbs he didn’t recognize. And only water, clear and cold. No wine, no beer, not even warm milk. That was the way of Oltikán. He knew. But gods, what he wouldn't give for a single mug of something else.

  As he mulled over the many small indulgences he might never know again, a voice cut through his thoughts.

  “May I sit here?”

  He turned. It was a Haksari, the one who’d somehow had the strength to jump for joy when the shrine first appeared through the trees. Now that he managed to see her up close, he could tell it was a young woman, he could almost never tell with Haksari.

  “I’m Atzi,” she said quickly, already sliding into the seat beside him before he could answer.

  She studied him with open curiosity. “You’re a Drexari, right? Is that... the right word?”

  He nodded. “That’s right,” he said simply. “Damath.” He extended his hand.

  Her fingers met his—small and slender, dwarfed by his own.

  “I’ve never met someone of your…” She hesitated, silver eyes flicking up to the antlers, the faint shimmer of scales marking his shoulder. “Kind,” she finished, the word awkward in her mouth, yet unable to find a better one.

  “There aren’t many of us in this region,” he said with a half-smile.

  “Nice to meet you,” she replied, then faltered, unsure where to go next. “So… I’m curious. What brings you here?”

  He didn’t hesitate.

  “I want to take the Trial of Oltikán,” he said. “Become a Vessel. Then… become the Heir.”

  She choked slightly on her drink, setting the cup down with a startled laugh. “Seriously?” she said, wiping her lips. “You say it like it’s just a three-step plan. That’s a tall order, and definitely not the answer I was expecting.”

  Damath smiled briefly, but he looked determined. The kind of determination that can only come from exceptional certainty, or complete ignorance.

  He looked at her more closely now. Young, but not inexperienced. “What about you? Why’d you come?”

  Atzi leaned back, blinking at him with something between admiration and disbelief. “Well,” she said, “I guess… I’m here for the same reason. Kind of.” She gave a soft, embarrassed laugh. “But I definitely don’t have your confidence.”

  “So you’re registering for the Trial?” she asked, her tone suddenly lighter. “If you are, you’d better follow me. I was planning to register just after this.”

  At the threshold of the building, Damath knelt, sliding his boots on for the first time in days. As he tightened the worn bindings, he glanced toward Atzi.

  “What is the First Trial of Oltikán, exactly?” he asked. “No one’s told me much.”

  Atzi looked up from fastening her own boots, her fingers still tugging at the knots. “Really?” she said with a half-smile. “With that level of confidence, I assumed you already knew.”

  He shrugged, simply giving her a calm smile.

  She snorted. “Alright then.” After a breath: “They assign us into teams, six per group. Our goal is to reach the shrine at the heart of Mount Xatal,” she said, nodding toward the looming silhouette of a snow-ringed volcano that hovered in the distance. “Before the sixth long night.”

  His brow furrowed. “The sixth?”

  “Yeah. Once the Trial starts, the clock runs. We won’t be allowed to leave the examination grounds, not until we succeed or fail. And the examiners… well, they’re notorious for attacking without warning. To test us. Make it harder.”

  She looked away, squinting toward the white-capped horizon. “According to what I’ve heard, we’re allowed to use anything. Magic, tools, crafted gear, relics, whatever we can scavenge or make.”

  “Have you tried it before?”

  Atzi shook her head, her long obsidian hair waving from side to side. “No. But I’ve asked around. Everyone says it’s brutal. Especially during the long nights.” She didn’t need to explain, he knew what that meant. The temperature would plummet. The winds would howl. And the sun wouldn’t rise for days.

  They stood up and walked in silence for a while. They made their way out of the sacred grounds and into the narrow stone streets of the town, winding between low buildings and elevated walkways. People glanced at them as they passed, well, at him. Atzi barely seemed to register, but Damath felt their eyes. Curious, cautious. Measuring. Some whispered, though none openly stared.

  Have they never seen a Drexari before? he wondered. Or just never one this close?

  Perhaps he was. The first who wasn't a story or a warning.

  They reached the registry hall, a tall structure of basalt and polished wood, its roof domed and cracked with frost. Inside, lines formed beneath hanging lanterns. Pilgrims, aspirants, and priests moved between desks.

  He stepped forward when called.

  “Name?” the clerk asked, craning his neck in an almost painful position to meet his gaze.

  “Damath.”

  “Last name?”

  “You can write Cassim, that′s the name of my star,” he said.

  A pause. “Right,” they muttered, writing something. “You’re in Team Fourteen.”

  They handed him a slip of thin paper etched with runes and a wax seal, then gestured him aside. He stepped out into the cool stone corridor just as Atzi emerged from the other line, holding a similar paper.

  “Team Eight,” she said, her voice subdued.

  His paper crinkled in his hand. “So we’re not in the same group.”

  She shrugged with a resigned smile. “I guess not.”

  For a moment, neither of them said anything, then Damath broke the silence with a question “Any more advice for the trial?”

  Mother,

  I’ve done it. I’m now a follower of Oltikán. The rites are complete, and there is no turning back.

  I know this path won't be easy, but I believe the effort will be worth it. Each step brings me closer to what we all have longed for—for us to return to a place we can call home.

  Please wait for me. Take care of yourself. Endure a little longer.

  —Damath

  Damath's Pilgrimage.

  Chapter 5: Xolani.

  Thank you very much for taking the time to read my story.