The air was thick, weighed down by the residual anger of the crowd and the tension that now pulsed between Rashid and Malrik. The torches surrounding the platform burned low, their flickering light casting jagged shadows that danced across the elders' somber faces.
I kept my gaze low, not out of regret but because I was trying to read Rashid's body language—something I'd learned to do from years of navigating his moods. His posture was upright, shoulders squared, but the slight limp as he shifted his weight didn't escape me. Neither did the way his hands flexed at his sides, as if he was resisting the urge to clench them into fists.
Kael, beside me, crouched low on his knees, his breaths coming in shallow bursts as if the weight of the Zurahs' hands still pressed against his back. Cynane sat quietly, her brace pulled awkwardly against the stone, her fingers clutching her knees so tightly her knuckles turned white. I wanted to comfort them, but my own anger burned too hot. I bit the inside of my cheek until I tasted iron, forcing myself to focus on the scene unfolding before me.
The elders stood in a semi-circle around Malrik, their robes catching the golden light. Their faces were a mixture of disapproval and fatigue, but it was Malrik who spoke first, his voice low and sharp, each word falling like the echo of a hammer against stone.
"Rashid," he began, drawing the name out, as if testing its weight. "You can't keep shielding them. This defiance will bring nothing but ruin. The Hollows were cursed for their rebellion, and rebellion will only deepen the curse."
The crowd around the platform murmured in agreement, heads bowing instinctively. Their voices were tinged with fear, not of Malrik but of what his words represented. Cyris had made them afraid of dreaming, of believing there could ever be another way.
Rashid didn't flinch, though the flicker of pain in his stance deepened for a fraction of a second. "I understand your concerns, Malrik, but you won't solve anything by demanding submission from children. They need guidance, not punishment."
"Guidance?" Malrik stepped forward, his shadow cutting across Rashid's form. "Guidance is what led us here. We've bent our knees, our heads, and our backs in the name of survival, yet Cyris takes more every time. You of all people should understand that obedience is the only shield we have left. What would you have us do? Fight with empty hands? Risk everything for more fire and ash?"
Rashid's jaw tightened, the lines of his face deepening in the torchlight. "Obedience hasn't saved us. It's kept us breathing—but that's not the same as living."
I looked up at that, my chest tightening at his words. His voice carried a note of frustration, one he rarely allowed to surface. But there was something else there, too—resignation, perhaps.
"Living?" Malrik scoffed, the sound cold and sharp. "You think this is about living, Rashid? This is about surviving until the gods decide we've paid enough for our ancestors' arrogance. Until we've endured enough to earn back their mercy. If not for obedience, Cyris would've burned this mountain to ash generations ago."
"And they may still," Rashid said quietly, his voice low but firm. "Obedience didn't stop the last attack. Or the one before it."
The murmurs of the crowd swelled, a tide of unease sweeping through the Hollow people. A few Zurahs exchanged glances, their expressions unreadable beneath their ashen veils, but their stiffened postures betrayed discomfort.
Malrik turned to the crowd, gesturing broadly. "And whose fault will it be when they come again? Who will bear the blame for the gods' wrath when this girl," he spat the word like a curse, pointing at me, "drags us further into ruin?"
My stomach churned, but I lifted my chin, defiance sparking in my chest. I couldn't stay silent, not when Malrik twisted the truth like this. "You act like I'm the reason Cyris burns our homes," I said, my voice cutting through the murmurs. "But they've been doing that long before I was born. You think kneeling will change that?"
"Enough, Aya," Rashid said, his voice firm but not harsh. His eyes flicked to me, and for a moment, I saw the weight he carried—a weight I'd added to tonight. But he didn't look angry. He looked tired.
Malrik seized the moment. "See how she speaks to her elders? This is your doing, Rashid. You've filled her head with ideals that have no place here. She's reckless, dangerous, and if you won't discipline her, then we will."
The air around the platform felt heavy, the murmurs of the crowd falling silent as everyone waited for Rashid's response. He held Malrik's gaze, unyielding, his silence more commanding than any shouted retort.
When he finally spoke, his voice was low but laced with authority. "You will do nothing without my approval, Malrik. My family is my responsibility."
The crowd parted instinctively as Rashid stepped forward, his tall frame casting a shadow over the kneeling figures of Kael, Cynane, and me. His limp was more pronounced now, but he carried himself with a strength that made it easy to forget.
"I've spent my life trying to repay the kindness this community once showed me," Rashid began, his voice low but resonant, carrying across the gathering. "When I was nothing more than a stranger seeking refuge, Ashora opened its arms. You gave me a place to stand when the world sought to bury me. For that, I swore I would serve this community with everything I had, for as long as I lived."
He paused, the weight of his words settling over the silent crowd. "When the fields failed us, we found new ways to grow. When sickness swept through, we fought it together. I've traded my safety, my blood, and my years to ensure that our people could endure. Not because I see myself as more capable or wise, but because I owe it to every one of you who stood with me when I had nothing."
His dark eyes moved over the crowd, softening as they landed on the bowed heads of the Hollow people. "But there are things I cannot mend. I cannot grow hope in soil salted by fear. I cannot teach resilience to those who believe their only choice is to bow."
Rashid turned to Malrik, his tone steady and measured. "I know your anger comes from a place of love for our people, Malrik. You see defiance as a dangerous spark, one that could consume all we've worked to preserve. And I cannot fault you for fearing the cost of rebellion."
He paused, his gaze sweeping over the gathering, his voice softening but losing none of its strength. "But I also know that survival has demanded much of us—sacrifices no people should ever have to endure. Obedience has held us together in ways nothing else could. It has been our shield against the storm. But even shields crack under too much weight."
Rashid's eyes lingered on the crowd, his expression unreadable. "I do not claim to have the answers. But I know this: every life in this square matters. Every voice. Every choice. And it is my duty, as it is yours, to guide them—not to break them. We owe our children more than fear, even if it is all we've been given."
"Enough words, Rashid," Malrik snapped, his voice cutting through the murmurs of the crowd like a whip. "What will you do with them? What punishment will remind Ashora that rebellion cannot be tolerated?"
Abba's gaze shifted to us. The weight of it settled heavily, steady but unrelenting. For a moment, the square fell silent, even the wind holding its breath. His face betrayed no anger, but the disappointment in his eyes was sharp enough to cut. It wasn't the kind of disappointment that came from disobedience; it was the quiet pain of a man forced to choose between what was right and what was necessary.
"Stand," Rashid said simply.
I forced myself to my feet, my legs trembling from the strain of the chase and the weight of his disappointment. Kael and Cynane followed, their movements hesitant, their eyes flicking toward me for direction. I swallowed hard, refusing to let my gaze falter. My father's voice had steadied the storm around us, but the tempest in my chest still raged.
"Home," he said, his tone low but heavy, like a closing door.
The crowd parted before him, their murmurs fading into silence as he strode forward, his presence commanding and unyielding. Kael nudged me gently, urging me to follow, but my legs felt rooted in place. The Zurahs were still watching, their veiled faces unreadable, yet I could feel their silent judgment like knives at my back. I lifted my chin and took a step forward, refusing to let their gaze break me.
As we descended the path, the echoes of the ceremony gave way to the soft shuffle of feet and the occasional murmur from the crowd. My heart felt heavier with every step, like each one was leading me further into a reckoning I wasn't ready to face. Abba walked ahead, his shoulders broad and unbowed, the strength in his stride unmistakable. I couldn't see his face, but I didn't need to. His silence said enough.
I knew this moment would come. Every act of rebellion carries its price, and I'd always known I'd have to face him. But knowing didn't make it easier. Seeing him now, the weight of his presence, made me understand what it meant to live with the ashes, as he once said. To carry the cost of every choice, every failure, every scar etched into this mountain and its people.
Kael and Cynane followed silently beside me, their eyes darting between the Zurahs behind us and Rashid ahead. I wanted to speak, to reassure them—or maybe myself—that this wasn't the end. That our defiance had meant something. But the words tangled in my throat, caught between fear and determination.
The crowd watched us go, their eyes filled with something I couldn't quite name—disapproval, maybe. Resignation. Or was it something more? A spark of curiosity, a whisper of doubt that dared to follow us down the path? I couldn't tell. But as I walked, I felt the night's weight press heavier on my shoulders, as though the mountain itself was trying to crush me back into place.
I couldn't regret what I'd done, not even now. The crown had fallen, the first crack in the stone. But cracks had a way of spreading, and I wasn't sure yet if they would shatter the mountain or bring it tumbling down on all of us.