Chapter 7

I sat between Clarisse and Tales in silence, appreciating the peace that ending the dispute had brought. Clarisse stared into the distance, and I respected her silence. The river lay kilometers away, a narrow strip visible from where we were still amidst the forest. But the constant descent of the Valley and its statues became apparent. In the distance, the immense walls of D'haime loomed like a faded mountain on the horizon. It all felt so vast—I took a deep breath, trying to expand my chest and absorb the entire place in a single sigh.

"Would any of you dare to go to Golksel?" I asked my companions, attempting to shift their thoughts away from the current situation.

They looked at me—Tales with a furrowed brow and Clarisse with a seriousness that showed her interest in my question.

"Absolutely not!" Tales replied emphatically. "That tiger from yesterday surely belongs to that side of the forest. After what it did, I'm glad we have another place to go."

Henrique remained silent, appearing to have slept poorly. His silence indicated he wasn't ready to tolerate Tales' ideas.

"Don't forget that some people wouldn't accept D'haime under any circumstances," Clarisse subtly gestured toward Carmen. "And there have been reasons to consider Golksel... I won't say more, but I'm not sure I'd risk it that much."

"That's interesting... Why has she never spoken about that attempt? She must have gone and regretted it," Tales inquired.

"I believe she carries enough pain regarding that matter. Besides, she's not one to talk much," I replied, emphasizing that Carmen already bore na unpleasant burden and didn't need additional weight.

"Some people, out of self-respect, prefer not to be so transparent," Henrique chimed in. I squeezed Tales' hand, signaling him to stay quiet. He complied, though his cheeks flushed with anger at not being able to retort. We were all feeling the loss, and we shouldn't hurt each other further in the process.

"But I think we should at least get to know both sides before deciding," Henrique added, shrugging. He was right, even though it wasn't a viable option.

This time, Sabrina walked ahead, carrying Olivia's knives in a bag. She struggled a bit due to their weight. Neither she nor Hugo had said a word that day, except for the fight he had merely stared at apathetically. For me, a day without his ridiculous posturing felt reassuring, although the circumstances surrounding it dampened any sense of victory.

Watching their progress, I remembered our childhood as gatherers. Clarisse's parents took care of us. Just like during the hunt, when I reached the required seven years, Hugo, Clarisse, Uriel, and the honorees of that day were already two years ahead. Back then, I didn't have such na aversion to him, but as he stood out, his fragile ego knew no bounds. On one hand, I didn't blame him—the competition was fierce to collect more—but I rarely ranked among the top performers, which cost me my peace.

We emerged from the forest, and the sun began to bother us. Looking around, beyond the green, I saw other caravans descending toward the pyre. The place must be crowded today... In truth, it should always be, as hunting made us easy prey. Despite the distance, I couldn't help but feel for their losses. After all, their losses didn't necessarily mean gains for us. We were divided to maximize resource utilization, not because we hated each other.

The descent quickened our pace. We were now in the middle of the field, and the vegetation around the pyre no longer seemed as dense. I could see people sitting, talking, and straining to see. Our destination was becoming visible. From what I gathered, there would be two ceremonies simultaneously, as one of the caravans I spotted was at the same distance as ours.

As we approached, people passed us, and Carmen acknowledged them with a slight nod. We continued forward. When we were about a hundred meters from the entrance, those in our path stopped out of respect for the ceremony. Although simple, it was common to all.

Entering among the trees, Hugo began the ceremony in a subdued tone, reciting verses about the bravery of the departed. The captain from the other village followed our left side. I felt weak—not just physically but emotionally drained from the entire journey. During Hugo's recital, there were moments when tears blurred my vision. I blinked rapidly to improve visibility, and when I looked again, a member of the other team had noticed my tears. He nodded in sympathy, and I quickly returned the gesture, focusing once more on Hugo's words.

Along the path, the stone columns were adorned with carvings depicting the history of the land and its origins. I never quite understood why the villages separated when we were all descendants of Mirana and Caius. In D'haime, the elders claimed it was due to the land's poverty—the river water wasn't good, and division helped regulate supplies. My grandmother doubted this and secretly used water from the river, hidden from the other villagers. "Bad water, you see? Drink it, but don't spread the word. The risk of fetching it is enough," she'd say. Occasionally, early in the morning before there were witnesses, she'd bring buckets of river water. She believed it would only harm us if discovered. Despite her caution, I couldn't make her understand that my poor performance might be due to this practice. My grandmother insisted that the serpent in the purple sky contaminated the land. If there was any separation, it was because of that. She didn't elaborate when she got irritated and spoke like that, but her firm gaze warned me not to ask questions in front of others.

The walls of that place, however, told a different story. They spoke of the rift that brought the purple aurora to the lands and how Mirana mastered it, creating D'haime to save many from the dangers of the golden energy. Caius and Mirana were separated by this energy—Caius, golden, couldn't bear living under the purple energy. He fled with his children to where the villages now stood. The Valley was where they met. Mirana focused on replacing the golden energy in their bodies with D'haime's energy without killing the host. That's why we were attuned to D'haime. The center of the Valley was where the golden Aurora took Caius when he died during Mirana's first attempt. She never gave up on bringing their children back.

That's why only the chosen ones could attempt the test. When someone withstands the Icon trials, they receive Mirana's gaze—a lilac line in their eyes that marks their union with the Mother of the Lands. They can then live over the rift without harm. If someone manages to master the aurora during the trials, they are elevated to the position of Selector. Their bloodline is recognized as direct descendants, and they choose others because they carry na energy current within them. Our entire life is based on what these walls say—except for the parts when my grandmother doesn't have control.

When we reached the pyre, we gathered around it. Those with belongings placed them inside while we awaited the moment of burning.

"Blessed be the memories," the captains recited the same verse as part of the ceremony. Soon, it would be Clarisse and me participating.

"Passed down through all generations," Clarisse continued, and the young man who witnessed my attempt to stop crying nodded in agreement. "The act of bravery in your hearts."

"May your spirits inspire courage," I said, my voice choked and as loud as I could manage. "May they guide those yet to be born." I was genuinely too emotional for that moment, and I didn't like it. The remaining participants finished placing their torches on the pyre, and Carmen approached us with a dye, marking our palms and the backs of our hands.

After everyone was marked, the funeral song that Carmen had sung earlier began again. I couldn't bring myself to sing; instead, I watched the fire burn and crackle in the sunlight—a symbol of the golden aurora, responsible for collecting the souls of those who didn't ignite D'haime. Looking around, I saw many lost gazes. Hugo and Sabrina weren't singing either. Sabrina seemed distraught, and Hugo clenched his jaw, tense and rigid. He surely blamed himself for this, but apparently, this would be the fate of this place until the very end. After all, "those yet to be born would follow in their footsteps," even if nobody wanted it to be so.

"I'll never go to the..." Tales whispered behind me as the others sang. "The light of this place feeds on our people's pain." His voice carried resentment, and I couldn't blame him.