The festival was to begin on the evening of December 19th, two days before the winter solstice. It was cool and dry when Nico knocked on the door of the room I shared with Muriel. Since she was out on patrol, I pulled it open and waved him inside. He was dressed in a brown fur jacket and long snow pants, and he balanced the dome that held the sundew in his left palm.

“Let’s go to Gibnor together,” he said.

“Okay.” I pulled on my jacket and tossed my bag over my shoulder. “Let’s go.”

We passed through the door and into the canyon. Above us, the base’s halls and ledges were flooded with people preparing to leave for the festival. “Is everyone going?” I asked, “aren’t the patrols still running?”

“The festival is three days and three nights. The soldiers are alternating days so that Bellgate will never be unguarded. I’m on duty for the second day.” I nodded, assuming that I would have Sarah to keep me company in his stead.

As we skirted the base, the desert plain in its entirety came into view. The harsh shapes of the rock formations loomed in the dusk like grounded ships, and the winter wind swept dust off of the cracked earth, stinging our skin. In the back of the compound was the hulking shape of Gibnor, glowing yellow and orange. The vastness of it all made my chest feel tight.

People were already gathering around Gibnor’s base, and we joined the budding crowd at Nico’s direction. A platform had been erected, and atop it stood the male elder who had sat at the head of the table, holding a cup-like vocal transmitter. Wordlessly, he waited as the crowd swelled larger and larger, and the ledges grew packed with people. As the sun set, it seemed as though all nine-thousand of Bellgate’s citizens had come out for opening night. I shivered—the air was abuzz with the whispered excitement of an entire city.

Finally, when the last of the sun’s rays disappeared, the leader raised the transmitter to his face. “Tonight,” he began, marks the thirty-sixth anniversary of the Solstice Festival.” There were deafening cheers all around. “For three days and two nights, we will celebrate the land that has harbored us for over five decades. I will keep this short—enjoy yourselves, eat well, and be safe. Only the base and Gracego are exempt from the festivities.” He crossed his fist over his chest in Bellgate’s solute. “Never forget the people who have sacrificed their lives for us to exist outside of the reign of the Keon bloodline. Tonight, we live for them!”

The ground shook as nine-thousand people stomped their feet and shouted their approval. My head spun, and I gripped my bag as if to ground myself. “Are you all right?” Nico asked in my ear, “Your knuckles are white.”

I simply nodded, unable to express how the passionate display of patriotism had overwhelmed me. Nico started to say something else, but the crowd began to move forward, swallowing us. There were shouts all around as people pulled together and apart, greeting each other like long lost relatives. Many started the climb up to Gibnor’s ledges, some foregoing the stairs entirely and using the pulley systems to ascend the rock face.

Nico smiled. “Come on,” he called, and we let ourselves be swept away by the throng bound for Gibnor’s main ledge. The wind whistled over the narrow stairs, making my position feel terribly precarious. I glanced at Nico, but his expression was one of wild excitement, not unease, as his dark hair whipped around his face.

Old iron lanterns illuminated the ledges, and many people carried candles with hemisphere-shaped wind shields. The result was an atmosphere that flickered with light, dim one moment and blinding the next. The cotton ropes, now interwoven with berries and flowers, hung over the main pathway. Checkered white butterflies fluttered from rope to rope, attracted by the fresh nectar and the heat. It was a delicate, fragile beauty, and the raucous crowd seemed to calm slightly as it passed underneath.

Amid the chaos, Nico seemed to know exactly where he was going. He stopped at an opening to hand his sundew to a man in an apron, giving him instructions to keep it warm. The man cradled it to his chest, thanked Nico for his contribution, and disappeared into the rock. With both hands free, Nico grabbed a spare candle from another volunteer and walked through the crowd, leading me into a vast cavern that had been converted from a classroom into a gallery.

There were fewer people inside, and I let out a deep breath. “Look,” Nico said, drawing my attention to the walls of the cavern. Hanging from ceiling to floor was a series of tapestries, more lifelike than I would have thought possible. I stepped closer, completely entranced.

The tapestries depicted the founding of Bellgate, from the first weather-beaten group entering the desert to the occupation of Gibnor’s caves. No stitch was misplaced. In the corner of the third tapestry, a man stared into a ram’s eyes as it died from a hunter’s arrow. A strange emotion passed between them: understanding from the ram, and gratitude from the man as he realized that his family would live for another week.

A woman nearby saw me admiring the work. “You know, these were made for the thirtieth anniversary of the festival,” she said. “They are not as popular as they were the year of their creation, but they are my favorite piece to date.”

I smiled, thinking of the contrast between the shocking excess of the Fortress art and the cavern’s tapestries. “They’re incredible. I cannot imagine how much effort went into weaving them.”

I looked over to find Nico, who had crossed the cavern. Together, we walked through the rest of the display, which was just as impressive, though not as grandiose. It included a half-dozen humble paintings on animal hide and papyrus, detailing Bellgate’s landscape in realistic detail. I pointed out my favorites to Nico: an aerial view of Gibnor’s gardens, and an oil rendition of the sky as seen from Bellgate’s tallest point. Other artists had opted to sculpt or craft pottery, choosing the desert’s red clay as their medium.

For the next hour, Nico and I wandered in and out of display rooms. In a newer, more crowded exhibit, the old man and the child I had seen painting stood next to their canvas. Their work, a flock of brightly-colored birds flying over the desert, was displayed between two wooden stakes.

I greeted them and gazed at the painting. The birds had been painted with wide, swirling strokes, giving the work a surrealist quality. “This is very unique,” Nico asked the man. “Where did you learn this style?”

The man smiled and spoke with a heavy accent unlike any I had heard before. “Before the war, I lived in Japan, a small island nation. This is how my father taught me to paint.”

Nico developed a stunned expression. “I didn’t know there were any survivors from Japan.”

“Amberasta is a large country, young man, and there are lands even beyond its domain. My community lived in the far north after the war, but we were forced to move when my daughter became pregnant with Ayumi.” He gestured at the girl at his side. I couldn’t help but notice that they were alone, and I wondered what had happened to the rest of their community.

The conversation drifted to lighter topics for a few minutes before Nico twisted his fist over his heart in Bellgate’s salute. “Thank you, sir, for speaking with me.”

“The pleasure was mine.”

Together, Nico and I left the gallery and re-entered the throng on Gibnor’s main ledge. “I had thought that culture was lost forever,” Nico said, speaking directly into my ear so that his words would not be lost to the noise of the crowd.

“There is too much that I do not know,” I replied.

A trumpet sounded over the canyon, and I whipped around with worry. Nico placed a hand on my shoulder. “It is only the call to the feast,” he said. “Would you like to go to the gardens? My friend is a cook, and he offered us a spot at his table.”

I nodded. “Perhaps Sarah will be there too.”

The wind pulled at our clothes as we climbed the stairs to Gibnor’s gardens. As we reached the top, Nico took my hand, helping me up. Like the ledges, the plant beds had been lit with lanterns. The furnaces burned on compost, dampening the biting cold. There was no crowd at Gibnor’s summit, only a small group of gardeners, cooks, and their guests. Tarps had been pinned to the rock to be used as tables. As I watched, a group of people emerged from the smokehouse carrying bags and slabs of wood covered in food. The group cheered as they set down the food and found their places around the tarps, waiting for the feast to begin.

Nico led me to the nearest tarp, where a group of soldiers and some civilians were discussing the festivities. A felt a touch on my shoulder and turned around to see Sarah and Muriel. I grinned and greeted them both, especially glad to have found Sarah. She was wearing a beige jumpsuit which was darkened with smoke and grease. “Did you cook something?” I asked her.

“Yes, using the herbs I grew in the window. They're bringing it out soon,” she replied. We spoke of the art that I had seen as the last of the food was brought out. Instantly, the smell of meat filled my nostrils. In the center of our tarp was a wide wooden plank, adorned with strips of brown meat slathered with herbs. It was surrounded by smaller plates with a host of mouth-water dishes, including fish covered in piñon pine nuts and bread flavored with hackberry jam.

“What is it?” I asked, gesturing to the main dish.

“It is javelina, a relative of the wild pig,” Sarah answered.

Nico stood up, calling for quiet, and the heads of the other tarps did the same. “Tonight,” he said softly, “I offer my gratitude to these cooks, and for the land that produced our meal. I do not know all of you well, yet we are all family. Praise this land, and praise each other, for it is a blessing above all others.”

The tables cheered, and another trumpet blast sounded. “Let the feast begin!” the people shouted in unison.