Lochuir was in chaos.

Everyone, servants, freemen and nobles alike, had clambered down from the ridges, left the stages, and ran out from their dwellings in both fear and hope.

They gathered in front of the gates of the Loch Sagathan Temple, where Bromwyn and his cousins, the main house elders and shamans blocked their path to the thousand steps with cold resolve.

As the Siorrakt, he would not allow a nervous mob to ruin today’s holy rite. Yet, despite the obvious warning in his eyes, he could sympathize with his subjects.

The dhionne men, women, children and old waited for his grand-aunt and father to come down. The decree of the ancestors mandated by the leaders would be the only thing that could placate the populace’s anxious minds.

Only in their guidance would they find the resolve to scare away the fear of an unknown future.

He saw the nobles take in deep breaths. They tried and failed to hold their trembling hands still, some in horror, some in glee.

Of the freemen, some glanced at the nobles with clear avarice in their gaze, and some peered at the exit to the Lochuir township in unease. The servants only fidgeted about, not even knowing what to do.

Regardless, they all either cried or cheered or stared blankly up at the sky. Everyone there, including Bromwyn, knew exactly of one fact.

A new era had arrived.

Because the tide of blessing had left behind not merely visions of prosperity but also prophecies of destruction.

Everyone had heard the stories. The fearful ones knew what to expect but not what to do. The smart ones were already forming plans. Scheming even, if they were opportunistic enough.

Like the antlered man in front of him.

Elder Sonora talked on and on about ideology and whatnot. Most of which went in one of Bromwyn’s ears and left through the other.

Until he started hinting about concubine candidates for his little Gwyn. The old man even had the gall to suggest it as something the clan could not do without.

‘Did he not eat grass today? Why is he so damn excited? Time and place, Uncle Bevin, you’ve lived too long to forget that.’

Bromwyn cracked his neck as threateningly as he could while blasting out an annoyed sigh, which came out louder than Alleigh’s roars.

And to his joy, Elder Sonora’s narration halted, with the older man taking a few steps back. Yet after but a second, his composure returned, and he was about to go on praising how his grandson burnt hotter than a wildfire.

‘Finally found his spine, did he?’ Bromwyn was shocked at the unnaturally brave front of the old man who should be a spineless wimp. Either way, he tried to spook him one more time.

Bromwyn cracked his neck again in the other direction, then slammed the rubbled ground with his palms.

His cousin and aid, Cadwell, looked at him with slanted eyes. But Bromwyn ignored that, surprised that his second attempt at scaring off the coward had also failed. Usually, at this stage, the antlered man would scamper away like a babe by himself, spouting high sounding threats.

Bromwyn always appreciated a dhionne finding their gallant inner selves. But spirits help him when the same only turned Elder Sonora a hundred times more vexing. He had to keep his hands steady from punching the buffoon in half.

After all, it was Elder Sonora’s fault his little princess had gone to the ritual angry at Daddee.

‘Stop!’ Bromwyn gritted his teeth and tried to replace Agwyn’s pouting face with a cheerful one. It only caused him to hate himself, which definitely wasn’t the time to place such thoughts in his mind.

‘It’s unbecoming. Not now Bromwyn, not now.’

But he failed spectacularly, and his stern visage involuntarily melted into a full-faced, doughy-eyed grin.

‘My valiant Gwyn is so cute when she is angry too!’

It took one disappointed tsk from Cadwell, and Elder Sonora, at last, jolting his head away in horror that Bromwyn realized what he had done. He coughed loudly to distract them, hurriedly composing himself from that shameful expression.

But now that the antlered man had lost his spine again—as he should be, Bromwyn spoke with a booming voice, striking the iron while it was hot.

“Elder Sonora, I hear and will give thought. But maybe now isn’t the proper time for this… suggestion? After all, my daughter had just gotten betrothed!”

“Gheistfurs! How rude of me, my lord!” Elder Sonora’s face paled. Or did it get brighter, actually?

‘Oh, spirits. I should not have responded to him.’

Bromwyn’s fears came true when Sonora knelt down with the poise of a martyr, shouting, “I will kowtow on the sharp stones until the Grand Shamanka and Grand Elder descends, to atone for my follies. But it gives my heart nothing but hope, that you will deign to even think about my untimely suggestion.”

And all his cronies followed, shouting the same thing like a nest of Talkabirds.

Bromwyn facepalmed.

It was always like this. Whether this man was a coward or not didn’t matter. He would always, always, try to ruin everyone but his own fun.

When Bromwyn had gotten inaugurated as heir, they came to him beating drums and clapping rocks with their ‘jade skinned, learnt in the crafts of arts’ sisters and daughters.

Bromwyn scoffed, ‘Certainly, Onthoakt Laerock’s sister was jade skinned.’

When Bromwyn steeled himself to wed the far stronger, far older Cyra, Elder Sonora returned again to propose the thousand reasons why Cyra should accept five other ladies into their matrimony, to her face.

The marriage was itself quite precarious at that time since it was out of convenience and obligation. Cyra’s Faediaga flock would never marry their Eldress off like that if their survival wasn’t hinging on it.

But that was that, and this was this.

Elder Sonora single-handedly turned Cyra’s poor impression of Bromwyn to the absolute worst impression in a matter of minutes.

Cyra’s flock even accused him of dishonouring the ancient pacts of Lou and Earthloch, that he was taking advantage of the Lou flock now that he knew Cyra was at his mercy.

That was the first time in his life he had felt killing intent towards a clan member. It took cycles of pampering to each of his wife’s many ridiculous fancies to mend that initial impression.

Bromwyn predicted that Elder Sonora’s zeal to progress the clan would be absolutely unbearable this time, and Bromwyn might actually murder the antlered man if he got the chance.

As unvaliant as that would be, sometimes, as one of the clan leaders, he had to make the hard choices.

During Bromwyn’s father’s ritual, only seven hundred and fifty-four spirits blessed the clan. It was one thousand, two hundred and ninety-eight during his. There was only a light manna shower in both cases.

This time, the heavens collapsed, and a hundred thousand spirits sauntered their way in like they owned the place.

It would not surprise Bromwyn if Elder Sonora and his cronies called forth all the unwed noble bachelors in the western lakes, regardless if they were six cycles old or sixty, and order them to vie for little Gwyn’s hand.

Last time, they could force nothing drastic on the sky realmer Cyra, as that would only lead to unnecessary deaths.

This time, they might think the Siaglas Reanakty was helpless to refuse their demands. They might even find a chance to threaten the gullible Eluned while Dofnald was not there or scheme a hundred other sinister tricks.

The very thought gave Bromwyn a headache. Neither he, Dofnald, or Cyra could do anything more about Eluned’s timidity. So, Bromwyn would simply let the meek woman be. He, as chieftain, would have his own house look after the young Siaglas Reanakty until they had enough strength to defend themselves.

It was fortunate that Dofnald was talented enough.

As he was brooding in his thoughts, a few shadows suddenly flickered on Bromwyn’s face.

The wind around had gone eerily stiff, but he seemed to be the only one to notice.

So he clapped his palms, sending out not only an avalanche of echoes but also a demand for silence.

Bromwyn stood up, stretching his arms and legs. After a few eye contacts with Cadwell and his other clan siblings, he turned around and bowed as humbly as he could towards the stairs leading to the sky. A hundred paces in front of him, Dofnald and Cyra did the same.

The crowd finally noticed the two grand figures coming down like deities and followed Bromwyn’s actions. Like a field of flowers closing bloom from north to south, with but a breaths interval.

“Rise,” The Grand Shamanka’s voice resounded like the muffled thunder on a stormy night. She stood in the fore, her shawls of manna drifting, uncaring like her titanic might. His father stood after, protecting the two adorable gremlins poking out from behind his legs from any ill gazes.

Bromwyn huffed in relief. Seeing them both safe and sound after experiencing such a cataclysmic collapse as the vanguard for their clan, even with such petite bodies, gave rise to both unfettered pride and cold dread in his heart.

‘As long as they are fine, it is enough.’ His heartbeat steadied, with all the annoyance from Elder Sonora’s tirades now forgotten.

As such, he could concentrate his ear on Lilian’s proclamations. He could use the guidance as much as his clansmen would, after what had transpired tonight.

“Dear brothers and sisters of my clan.” Lilian’s voice went up a few more octaves yet did not lose its signature chime. “Today, I stand before you with a heavy heart, but also a heart full of anticipation.

All of you have seen the blessing our prince and princess, the Siaglas heir and Earthloch heiress, called forth. The flight of a hundred thousand spirits and the sea of manna that spilt down from the sky.” She stopped, her gaze scouring the crowd below for a few quiet breaths of time.

A choir of gulps sounded from all around Lochuir, yet they died soon again.

“After today, the manna-rioghs will wake up in full force. The lakes of the far will go into a deep slumber until the brave can wake them once again. The gheists will rise in defiance, more powerful than ever before. Your homes and villages in all the corners of the Siorrakty will be razed to the ground. We will be trapped in the lands of Earthloch for many tens of cycles to come, severed from the disc as a whole. And many of us and many whom we love will die.”

The crowd took another round of deep breaths, and the clattering teeth raised a symphony of terror.

“Yet do not fear, my brothers and sisters. Haste with our mandates to your homes and bring back your family. Send out messengers to all corners of Earthloch, and the disc far beyond. Call back the guardians and the hunters, the disc-walkers and riogh-delvers. For we shall ultimately prevail!

With death, we will grow strong! The manna-rioghs will give us riches that even the Impelakty cannot fathom, in numbers as stars in the sky. The lakes will rise once more and shower us with ichors for your cultivation and longevity. The elixir herbs will sprout from the ground like weeds after rain, and there will be manna-cores in even the weakest of gheists for us to harvest!” Lilian roared.

Just like that, the fear sizzled away like fire in the rain, replaced by dreams of grandeur.

Bromwyn could feel the tension rise with every word the Grand Shamanka uttered.

She expertly painted a victorious vision of the future. For nobles, it was cultivation. For freemen, it was nobility. And for the servants?

It was freedom.

The breathing of the crowd grew heavier once more, but this time the tempo was different. This was a nasally panting; fast, unsteady, and impatient.

Lilian continued, raising her staff up high.

“The other clans and tribes will dare not step a single foot on our lands, for they cower in the might of our ancestral blessing! Lest they be cursed by the spirits of our guardian lakes for stealing what is ours! Because this is the grace of our ancestors, not theirs! So they will envy us, insult us that we are trapped like prey with the gheists and the rioghs.

But the truth is that the gheists and rioghs are trapped here with us! And not the other way around! So when the next generations come, we will reveal ourselves to the disc far stronger. We will show ourselves with many more thousands of Earthen realmers and many more tens of Oceanic. Maybe, maybe one of you will even….” Lilian’s face blushed a vivid red as her eyes turned into crescents. Even she could not control the fervour in her breath now, as she smiled like a poisonous flower, facing everyone in Lochuir.

Bromwyn felt goosebumps run down his spine as the crowd around watched on with greedy glints in their eyes. They all knew what the following words were; they knew what Lilian’s speech hinted at, and wanted her predictions to come true with all the fibres of their being.

“One of you will be the next Sky realmer of our clan.”

All hell broke loose. Regardless of status and strength, everyone cheered like the mere mention of Sky injected them with chicken blood. A few minutes passed, and the cheering gradually died. Yet, the heated zeal remained.

It was palpable, as true as the rocks on the ground and trees on the mountains. Bromwyn saw it, smelled it, and could almost touch it with his hands.

“The collapsing tides bring with it danger and fortune side by side. Just as you have hope of touching the sky, I, too, have the hope of reaching beyond! Just like the founder had, the Waveking Ieuan had, and their companions had when they too lived through the collapse that had graced the clan in their times.

So do not despair. Smile, and find the heroic souls within yourselves. Run forth, and share your valour with your children, spouse and parents. Tell them that the future will only be brighter, never darker.

Since we have to give blood, we will give more of it. But we will take a million times more in return and raise our clan higher than all others on the disc!

Our struggle this time is for ascension! We will stop at nothing until we clinch the peaks with our bloodstained hands.

Be ready, my brothers and sisters. For we cannot afford to lose our heart, our courage, and our ambitions. Keep the spirit of our ancestors alive, and keep the momentum from it heated, because if we stop, the blessed tide will morph into a cursed collapse.

Be fast, be steady, be brave, be bold, be greedy, and be loyal.

Blessed be the princess! Blessed be the prince! Blessed be the lands, and many lakes of Earthloch!”

“Blessed be the princess! Blessed be the prince! Blessed be the lands, and many lakes of Earthloch!”

“Blessed be the princess! Blessed be the prince! Blessed be the lands, and many lakes of Earthloch!”

The people cried and laughed and rallied and hailed. It didn’t stop until the Sohwl rose. The feast that night was the greatest Bromwyn had ever seen in his life.