What am I actually doing right now?

  Paalo tilted his head back, squinting up at the Ka’alani Peaks. They loomed above him like jagged fangs, their broken silhouettes torn from the sky’s dying light.

  Rose and gold bled across the horizon, daylight slowly collapsing into embers as the wind poured down the mountains in heavy gusts. It carried the sharp bite of pine and something colder underneath it—the promise of distant rain.

  He stepped onto the trail.

  At first, the path rose gently, familiar beneath his feet. But it didn't take long for the land to show its teeth.

  Loose stones skittered underfoot, tumbling into silence somewhere far below. The soil crumbled at the trail’s edge, peeling back into empty air. One wrong shift, one careless step, and the ground simply disappeared.

  Higher up, the climb got greedy.

  Some stretches allowed for steady footing, but others forced him onto all fours, hands scraping across raw stone. His fingers closed around twisted roots, feeling them flex beneath him, half-expecting each one to rip free.

  Time thinned with the air.

  His breath began to mist. Sweat cooled against his skin despite the exertion, turning clammy in the rising wind.

  His breath became heavier, the burn in his thighs growing from an ache to a dull roar. He welcomed it. Pain meant movement. Movement meant progress.

  But the higher he climbed, the thinner the air became, the sharper, pressing against his ribs like an invisible fist.

  He stopped.

  Hands on his knees, he drew in a slow breath through his nose.

  He held it.

  Steady.

  Then let it spill out through his mouth.

  Again.

  At last, he reached a narrow ledge and sank onto it, letting his legs dangle over the abyss below. The canteen Tsawae had given him felt cool against his fingers as he pulled it from his satchel and took a slow, resourceful sip.

  Below him, the valley stretched out in a vast mosaic of color—the emerald sprawl of forests, the silver veins of winding rivers, the scattered glimmers of lakes reflecting the last glimpse of the sun. His village was little more than a speck now, distant and small, receding into space.

  The wind howled against the cliffs, sending stones rattling down the slopes. Paalo tightened his cloak and glanced higher.

  He had only just begun. And already, the mountain was testing him.

  A night on its side would be inevitable. Maybe more than one.

  He pushed himself to his feet and pressed on.

  By the time he reached the plateau, the last light of day had now faded to a deep violet, the sky darkening as the first stars blinked awake. He couldn’t go any further—not safely. Not at this point, anyway. His body ached from exertion, his tough hands raw from gripping jagged root and stone.

  He needed rest.

  Paalo found a spot against the base of a towering rock face, where the wind was a little less brutal. He tucked himself into the mountain’s embrace, where the rock face shielded him from the worst of the wind’s fury.

  Paalo set down his staff and eased himself onto the cold stone with a slow, tired breath. The plateau stretched out before him—wide, empty, and shadowed—its ancient slabs rising like silent sentinels beneath the stars.

  He reached into his satchel and drew out a strip of dried meat and a small handful of nuts, chewing carefully, conserving what little energy he had left.

  Almonds always got my back.

  His muscles protested as he shifted, bracing himself against the rock wall. Every movement sent a dull ache through his limbs. This wouldn’t be comfortable.

  Though, it would have to be enough.

  He pulled his cloak tighter around his shoulders and let his head rest against the stone. The mountain was cold even through the fabric. It pressed into his spine, solid and indifferent.

  Above him, the sky unfolded.

  Stars burned in quiet brilliance, scattered like shattered glass across the void. They felt impossibly far away. Untouched. Unconcerned.

  Paalo let out a slow breath.

  Then—

  A cry tore through the silence.

  Sharp.

  Commanding.

  It sliced across the mountainside and echoed back in fragments, bouncing between distant cliffs.

  Paalo stiffened.

  His fingers tightened around his staff.

  His pulse kicked hard against his ribs.

  Was that the Thunderbird?

  The words suddenly formed in his mind.

  Or something else.

  The wind carried no answer. Only thin, restless whispers through stone and pine.

  Sleep refused him after that. He lay still, listening.

  Every rustle sounded louder. Every shift of air felt deliberate. His thoughts drifted in uneasy circles, never settling.

  Is this really Him… guiding me? Or is it just me, walking into things I don’t understand?

  Why me?

  The question lingered, unanswered. The mountain did not respond. Only the wind spoke, brushing against rock and cloth in low, endless murmurs.

  Eventually, exhaustion claimed its due.

  His grip on the staff loosened.

  His breathing slowed.

  And at last, despite the unease curling in his chest, sleep slipped over him like a thin, fragile veil.

  He woke to the first breath of dawn, the air crisp and biting. The world had been reshaped in hues of soft gold and pale blue, the stars retreating into the vast expanse of sky. He rolled his shoulders, feeling the stiffness in his limbs, and took another sip from his canteen before rising to his feet.

  He was still alive–standing strong. The night didn’t consume him.

  The land changed with the morning light. The trees thinned, their gnarled limbs twisted by years of unforgiving wind. The trail narrowed to a strip of stone no wider than his shoulders. He drove his staff into the earth whenever he could, steadying himself, pressing forward.

  By the time he reached the plateau’s highest ridge, the sky had bloomed into breathtaking hues—crimson bleeding into sapphire, violet streaking through pools of liquid gold. Clouds shifted in slow, swirling patterns, reflecting the colors like an artist’s final stroke upon a canvas.

  The plateau stretched wide, ancient stones reaching from the earth like forgotten titans, their surfaces cracked and worn. He traced a hand over one, feeling the cold bite of the rock against his palm. They had stood here for centuries, perhaps longer. How many others had passed this way before him? How many had stared up at these very same skies, feeling just as small, or just as uncertain?

  Paalo exhaled, long and slow. His legs trembled beneath him, the deep burn in his thighs threatening to buckle his stance. His breath hitched—too shallow, too fast. His chest tightened, his lungs grasping for air that refused to come. He bent forward, hands braced against his knees, sucking in ragged breaths.

  Breathe. Just breathe.

  But the dizziness hit like a sudden wave, his stomach twisting violently in protest. He clenched his jaw, swallowing against the bile rising in his throat, but the nausea refused to subside. His vision blurred at the edges, black spots flickering in his periphery.

  He staggered, nearly losing his footing. His fingers dug into the earth, gripping the cold stone as though anchoring himself to the world.

  No, no, no. Not here. Not now.

  He forced himself upright, his chest still heaving, his muscles screaming. He wiped the sweat from his brow, blinking rapidly as the sky swayed in his vision. Slowly—achingly—he straightened his back and pushed forward, every step a battle against his own exhaustion.

  The plateau dropped off into a vast canyon at Paalo’s left, its walls streaked with red and orange, carved by the patient hands of wind and water.

  Narrow ledges cut across the cliffs, some dusted with stubborn patches of green—small, defiant plants gripping stone with roots like beggars hands. Twisted junipers clung to the slopes, their gnarled limbs reaching outward, frozen mid-gesture, as if caught in a long struggle against the sky.

  Their sharp, resinous scent drifted on the wind, clean and biting. It filled Paalo’s lungs and cleared the fog from his thoughts.

  He moved between low shrubs and scattered bursts of wildflowers, their brief colors flashing against the gray stone. His steps were light now. Careful. His staff remained steady in his grip.

  Then—

  Something shifted.

  Paalo slowed.

  His gaze lifted.

  A cave opened in the cliffside ahead—a jagged wound in the rock, its interior swallowed by shadow. But his eyes slid past it almost at once.

  Higher.

  Perched above the cavern mouth was a tangled mass of branches, bones, and woven debris, lashed together by age and weather.

  It sagged under its own weight.

  It breathed with the wind.

  A nest.

  His throat tightened.

  High. Too high. Too large.

  Cold crept into his fingers.

  Is that—

  The thought stalled before it could finish.

  A gust rolled across the plateau. And with it came the smell.

  Rot.

  Thick. Sour. Old.

  It clawed its way into his lungs.

  Paalo’s stomach twisted. He turned instinctively and dropped behind a slab of stone, pressing himself flat against its rough surface. He peered around the edge.

  The nest shifted.

  Something inside it moved.

  Feathers—ragged and broken—slid apart.

  Limbs unfolded.

  Figures emerged from the tangle, half-hidden in shadow and debris. Their bodies were wrong—too narrow in places, too broad in others. Human shapes stretched and warped beneath matted plumage. Bare patches of gray skin showed through torn feathers. Joints bent at uneasy angles.

  One scraped clawed fingers across its scalp, dislodging loose down.

  Another tore at something unrecognizable between its talons. A wet sound followed.

  Paalo’s jaw clenched.

  A third shape stirred.

  This one rose higher than the others.

  Broader. Heavier. Overall, bigger than the rest.

  Its shoulders rolled as it straightened, wings dragging against bone and branch. When it lifted its head, the light caught along the curve of its hooked, beak-like nose and the dull sheen of its eyes.

  Paalo forgot to breathe.

  The creature stretched.

  Feathers burst loose in drifting clouds.

  Its wings spread wide.

  And the sky dimmed beneath them.

  With a single, violent beat, it tore itself free of the nest. Air exploded outward. Dust and debris scattered.

  The wind slammed into Paalo’s side as the shadow swept over him. He flattened himself against the rock, every muscle locked.

  Don’t move. Don’t breathe.

  The sound came first.

  A deep, pulsing thunder of wings.

  Slow. Heavy. Relentless.

  It passed overhead.

  Close.

  Too close.

  Paalo felt it in his bones before he dared lift his eyes.

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  A gust of displaced air sent loose dust swirling around him. Talons scraped against stone.

  The harpy had landed only a few feet away. Its head twitched unnaturally, jerking one way, then another. A sickly, rasping breath escaped its lips. Its eyes, glassy and predatory, raked over the plateau, scanning, searching.

  Then–

  The harpy’s gaze swept over his hiding place.

  Paalo’s breath locked in his throat.

  This can’t be real.

  Had it seen him? His pulse pounded against his ribs, a wild, frantic drumbeat. Every instinct screamed at him to move, to run, to do something—but he forced himself to remain still. A single shift, a single careless breath, and it would be over.

  Just wait, everything will be okay? Right?

  The creature took a step forward, its talons clicking against the stone. Its nostrils flared, inhaling deep, testing the air.

  It knows I’m here. It has to.

  Paalo’s stomach twisted into knots. The scent of rot clung to the wind, mixing with the harpy’s foul musk.

  Another step—the harpy’s gnarled claws scraped closer.

  He squeezed his eyes shut. A silent prayer to Al’Tse Tawa formed on his lips, unbidden.

  Please...in the name of…

  Then—Tsawae’s voice echoed in his mind.

  You have everything you need within you, Paalo.

  His fingers twitched.

  A rock. A distraction.

  It lay just inches away, half-buried in the dust. Slowly—painfully—he inched his hand toward it, his skin prickling with dread at every tiny movement. The creature loomed above, its wheezing breath rasping through the distance between them. His fingers closed around the stone.

  Focus. Just focus.

  With all the strength he could muster, Paalo hurled the stone across the plateau. It struck against the rocks with a sharp clatter—a sudden, jarring noise against the hush.

  The harpy's head snapped toward the sound. Its wings flared wide, a shriek tearing from its throat.

  Paalo moved.

  Fast.

  Possibly, the fastest he had ever run.

  His muscles uncoiled, and he bolted from his hiding place, feet pounding against the plateau. The rush of air behind him sent a fresh wave of terror through his veins—but, the harpy had taken flight again. Its furious cry split the sky in half, its shadow stretching long over the ground.

  He ran.

  Faster and faster.

  The entrance to the cave lay just ahead, a gaping void carved into the mountainside.

  Safety.

  A wall of wind slammed into Paalo’s side.

  It tore the breath from his lungs and hurled him sideways. His feet skidded across loose stone, gravel exploding beneath his feet. Dust burst upward in choking clouds, stinging his eyes, filling his mouth with grit.

  He somersaulted for balance.

  Stumbled.

  Stone slipped.

  Then—

  Impact.

  The ground shuddered.

  Something enormous struck behind him with the force of a falling boulder. Air exploded outward. The sharp crack of wings split the plateau like a strike of thunder.

  Talons shrieked across rock.

  Paalo spun.

  Too late.

  A shadow swallowed him.

  Feathers, sinew, bone—everything blurred together as the creature crashed into range. Its stench hit first. Rot, sweat, and old blood.

  Then the grip.

  Clawed feet slammed around his staff.

  Bone-white talons curled tight, grinding into the wood with a sound like cracking teeth.

  And it yanked.

  Hard.

  Paalo’s body lurched forward.

  His stomach dropped as the ground slid away beneath him. The harpy’s wings exploded open, beating in savage bursts. Each strike hammered the air, kicking up whirlwinds of dust and stone.

  His sandals screeched against rock. His fingers locked. White-knuckled.

  Pain flared up his arms as the staff wrenched against his grip. The creature rose, inch by inch, dragging him with it.

  His heels lifted.

  Just barely.

  No. No—no, no, no—

  Paalo dug in.

  Every muscle screamed as he leaned backward, spine bowing, teeth clenched so hard his jaw burned. His breath tore out in ragged bursts.

  The harpy shrieked.

  A wet, rasping sound ripped from its throat. Its legs jerked, talons tightening, fighting him for dominance.

  It pulled again.

  Then again.

  Each jerk dragged him closer to the edge.

  Stone scraped beneath his heels.

  Pebbles rattled over the drop. Only inches now.

  Too close.

  Way too close.

  His arms trembled violently now, tendons quivering beneath his skin. The staff was all that held him to the world—one thin line between ground and open sky.

  He could feel the strength in the creature’s grip.

  Not just muscle.

  Not leverage, either.

  Something manipulated.

  Above him, shadows shifted.

  Wings unfolded.

  Two more shapes lifted from the nest, feathers catching the sun in jagged flashes of bronze and black.

  They were airborne.

  And they were coming.

  Cold flooded his chest.

  Three. Against one. His breath hitched.

  If he lost this—

  There would be no second chance.

  Paalo forced the panic down. Destroyed it.

  Now.

  With a guttural shout, he dropped his weight.

  Let himself fall.

  At the same time, he twisted hard to the side, wrenching his hips and shoulders in opposite directions.

  The sudden shift tore through the struggle like a knife through hide.

  The harpy screeched.

  Its talons slipped.

  Just enough.

  He ripped the staff backward with everything he had.

  Wood screamed. Splinters burst. The claws tore loose.

  Paalo broke free.

  He didn’t think. Didn’t hesitate. His body moved on instinct.

  He spun.

  And swung.

  The staff cracked through the air.

  CRACK.

  It smashed into the creature’s ribs with bone-breaking force.

  The impact echoed.

  The harpy howled, a strangled, inhuman shriek ripping from its chest as its body buckled. Its wings flailed wildly, struggling to keep balance.

  It staggered backward.

  Dust spiraled around it.

  Its warped, almost-human face twisted with fury.

  No time to hesitate.

  The boy sprinted.

  The wind shrieked around him, but he didn't dare look back. His feet pounded against the rock, lungs burning, legs threatening to buckle. He saw only one thing—that cave’s entrance, yawning wide like the mouth of salvation.

  The second he passed that threshold, he threw himself inside, the cave swallowing him whole, its cool embrace a stark contrast to the heat of his panic. He hit the stone floor and rolled, adrenaline reducing the pain. Scrambling to his feet, he spun, chest heaving.

  Outside, the harpies huddled above the entrance, their cries sharp with fury.

  But they did not enter.

  Paalo’s breath came fast, ragged. He pressed his back against the cavern wall, sweat slick against his skin despite the chill.

  The harpies' shrieks echoed outside, a mixture of rage and frustration. But they lingered at the threshold, talons scraping at the rock, unwilling—or unable—to cross into the cave.

  Why?

  Paalo's third eye pulsed, a faint warmth behind his brow. The cave carried a presence, an energy—one that the harpies dared not challenge.

  He had escaped, yes. But the true test still awaited him.

  The Thunderbird’s nest lay somewhere beyond, high in the peaks, wreathed in an ancient wisdom older than any of these man-made, chimeric creatures. And he would have to reach it.

  Paalo exhaled, slow and measured. Then, pushing off the wall, he turned and stepped deeper into the cave.

  In the blink of an eye, a sudden eruption of wings.

  The air around Paalo fractured into chaos as a torrent of bats shot from the shadows, their shrill cries slicing through the silence.

  He flinched, instinct taking hold, as the creatures flew past him in a frenzy.

  The wind from their frantic flight attacked his face, the brush of leathery wings a fleeting but overwhelming sensation.

  One step past the threshold, and the world behind him vanished. Sunlight collapsed into a thin, fading ribbon, then snapped shut like a door. Darkness rushed in to take its place—dense, suffocating, absolute.

  The cave swallowed him.

  Paalo slowed.

  His breath sounded too loud in the silence.

  The air felt colder here, too. He could feel it sliding across his skin, slipping down his neck, settling in his clothes. Every sound—his boots brushing stone, the soft rasp of his cloak—echoed back to him, warped and unfamiliar.

  He took another step.

  The ground shifted slightly beneath his foot.

  He froze. Heart pounding.

  Slow down. Don’t rush.

  He swallowed and forced himself to breathe again. The darkness pressed closer, as if the cave were leaning in to listen to his every thought.

  Stay calm. Feel the space.

  Tsawae’s voice drifted through his thoughts, gentle and steady.

  Light is always within reach.

  Paalo tightened his grip on the staff. The smooth wood felt solid. Real. Something he could trust when everything else felt uncertain. When everything else was gone.

  “Okay,” he whispered. “That means something.”

  He closed his eyes.

  Not because it was dark—because he needed to focus.

  He pictured it.

  A small glow. Warm.

  His lips moved without thinking, shaping the words he assumed would reach whoever was listening.

  “Light my path…”

  The cave remained silent.

  Nothing stirred.

  No glow. No spark. Only darkness.

  Paalo opened one eye.

  Then the other.

  “…Huh.”

  He shifted his weight, sandals scraping softly. He tried again.

  Another phrase.

  Then another.

  Still nothing.

  “Okay,” he muttered. “That’s…not what I wanted.”

  He took a few careful steps, arms slightly out, feeling like a child walking through a dark room, hoping not to crash into something. His shoulder brushed stone. Cold. Wet.

  He winced.

  Great. Now I’m lost and blind.

  For a moment, doubt crept in.

  Maybe I’m not ready for this. Maybe I’m just pretending.

  The thought stung more than he expected.

  He leaned lightly against the cavern wall, closed his eyes again, and listened—to his breathing, to the distant drip of water, to the quiet pulse of his own heartbeat.

  Then, softly, Tsawae’s voice surfaced again.

  Al’Tse Tawa walks with those who walk in trust.

  Paalo straightened.

  He inhaled slowly.

  This time, he didn’t search for perfect words.

  He spoke from his heart.

  “In the name of Al’Tse Tawa,” he whispered, voice trembling just slightly, “with Your power…let me see.”

  For a moment, nothing changed.

  Then—

  Warmth.

  A gentle pulse traveled through the staff, like a slow awakening. The wood hummed faintly beneath his fingers.

  Light bloomed.

  Not in a burst or flash.

  It unfurled—a slow spread.

  Soft, golden radiance spilled from the tip, flowing outward like liquid sunlight, rolling across stone and shadow alike. Darkness peeled back, retreating into cracks and corners.

  Paalo blinked.

  “…Whoa.”

  The cavern revealed itself.

  Walls glittered with patches of bioluminescent fungi, their green-blue glow pulsing gently, as if breathing. Veins of crystal caught the light and scattered it into faint rainbows. Stalactites hung from the ceiling like the teeth of some sleeping giant.

  Water dripped steadily somewhere ahead.

  Drip.Drip. Drip.

  A thin stream wound along the path beside him, silver and whispering, tracing the cave’s slow heartbeat.

  Paalo exhaled.

  A long one.

  A smile tugged at his lips.

  “I did it,” he murmured. “I actually did it.”

  He adjusted his grip on the staff, feeling its warmth steady in his palm.

  This time, when he stepped forward, he didn’t hesitate.

  His stride was careful—but confident.

  Light before him. Faith behind him. And the unknown waiting ahead.

  Paalo pressed on.

  His thoughts drifted back to Tsawae’s assurances.

  Al’Tse Tawa watches over you. But how? Was he truly being guided by a higher power, or was his survival owed to sheer determination alone? The question gnawed at him, a restless undercurrent beneath his perseverance.

  His light flickered.

  The silence of the cave offered no answer. Though, he did find peace in the steady drip of water and the hollow whisper of his own breath.

  And on he went.

  The tunnels stretched endlessly before him, winding through the mountain’s heart like the arteries of some ancient beast. The deeper he walked, the heavier the air became, thick and unmoving, pressing against his skin like unseen hands.

  Then—the whispers began.

  Soft at first, like the hush of distant wind through canyon walls. Then closer. Shapes of words forming, curling in the air around him. His name.

  Paalo…

  He froze.

  The voice—no, voices—slipped through the dark like spiders skittering through his mind. Some murmured too low to make sense of, others clearer, speaking in tongues he did not know but somehow understood.

  Turn back now…

  You’re not meant to be here…

  A chill licked down his spine, his grip tightening on his staff. His third eye pulsed, brighter than usual, almost to a dull pain, heat stirring behind his brow. The glow of his staff flickered—like something hidden had reached out, testing the light, pushing against it.

  Then—another voice. Familiar, though.

  Remember, you can always come home… You always have that choice.

  Paalo froze.

  That was Tsawae’s voice.

  But no. No, Tsawae wouldn’t say that. He wouldn’t encourage him to turn back. The tone behind the words was wrong, too soft, too detached—like something was trying on Tsawae’s voice, wearing it like it was stolen.

  Then came another. Direct.

  Paalo.

  His blood turned to ice.

  This time, it wasn’t Tsawae.

  It was his mother’s voice.

  Paalo, come home. You don’t have to do this.

  He squeezed his eyes shut. It wasn’t real—it can’t be real.

  Paalo, come home, dear. Please, please, come home. I’m scared for you.

  It got louder, more aggressive even. Desperate.

  Come home, I miss you. I’m telling you, come home now. I need you, I’m sick. I need you. Help me.

  But his mom was gone. He couldn’t imagine that voice actually being his mom.

  NOW, come home NOW. Listen to me. You never list…

  Gone. Suddenly the voice was gone.

  Then, after a moment of silence, voices began to overlap, layering on top of each other, cascading in an unnatural chorus. Some pleaded. Some mocked. Others chuckled, low and taunting. And beneath it all, a distant weeping, soft but constant, as if someone deep in the tunnels was crying for him.

  The walls of the cavern breathed.

  Or at least, they seemed to.

  The rock, solid and ancient, pulsed in his vision, shifting as though alive. Hair-raising shivers crawled across his skin as the whispers became laughter—dry, rasping, inhuman laughter that belonged to another realm.

  What is this? Why…for wha…

  Shadows stretched where they shouldn’t, twisting, writhing—not cast by his light, but moving on their own. He turned his head sharply, eyes darting to a figure at the edge of his vision—only to find nothing.

  But he wasn’t imagining it.

  The pools of water along the cavern floor no longer just reflected his path—they carried different shapes. Faint silhouettes, flickering like candle flames, standing at the edges of the dark.

  Just watching.

  He pressed forward, his pulse hammering against his ribs.

  At times, the passage narrowed, forcing him to crouch and squeeze through jagged openings, but the walls pressed back, like something forbidden was closing in. Other times, the tunnel opened into vast, cathedral-like chambers, their ceilings stretching so high his light barely touched the distant rock. Stalactites hung like the fangs of some sleeping beast, and below, the water pools rippled—though nothing had touched them.

  Fatigue gnawed at his limbs, but he didn’t stop.

  He couldn’t.

  And at this point, hours had passed. He had no way of knowing how many. Only the constant pattern of his own footsteps reminded him that he was still moving forward, still seeking the way out.

  Am I lost? I think I’m lost.

  He climbed slick, uneven slopes, his fingers brushing against the cold stone for balance. He waded through shallow streams, the icy water shocking his senses back to alertness.

  Then—at long last—a shift.

  Finally.

  A breath of fresh air. Faint, but crisp. Cool against his damp skin.

  Paalo quickened his pace, his pulse hammering with newfound urgency. And then, up ahead, the darkness gave way. A silver glow filtered through the tunnel’s mouth, the stars above beckoning him forward like distant lanterns.

  He stepped out.

  The night sky, possibly tugging at dawn, stretched vast and endless above him, a canvas of deep blue spattered with brilliant constellations. The moon’s glow bathed the plateau in soft silver light, and the cool mountain air wrapped around him like a soothing balm.

  With a weary sigh, he spotted a small, sheltered nook at the cave’s exit—just enough space to rest. He dropped down against the rock, using his satchel as a pillow, and let the light from his staff flicker and fade.

  The journey was far from over, but for now, he allowed himself the mercy of Sleep. He welcomed her sweet embrace.

  His muscles ached, his mind rushed. But, he had made it.

  For now.