Prologue
The Great Moon dominates the twilight sky, overseeing a vast expanse of jungle and snowcapped peaks. Mount Gorochen pierces the gloomy darkness, and from its dorsal summit, the icy range of Nyegyo coils down to a tropical paradise, lost to antiquity.
The First Age. Cycle 297.
thick undergrowth as relentless rain thrums on the jungle’s expansive, umbrella-shaped canopy. Serpentine branches, interwoven and creaking under the weight of the rain, loom above her and press against her skin, heavy and oppressive. Raindrops cascade from the bowing leaves, pattering onto the sodden jungle floor far below. The humidity suffocates, thick with the pungent stench of decaying leaves and tropical flowers. Beads of sweat flood down Morana's brow, merging with the rain, which clings to her skin and saturates her deer hide rags.
The raging river Gongal roars in the background, muffling the incessant chirping of insects. The frenetic chorus of agitated primates comes to an abrupt and eerie silence. Leaves rustle as an elusive white mountain goat, a gorol, takes cautious steps forward through the dense foliage and into Morana’s view. She steadies her breathing, keen eyes focusing on the gorol as it feeds. Vibrant feathers peek from the tube walls of a bamboo blowpipe as it comes to rest on Morana’s fluted lips.
“Steady your aim,” Morana's father whispers as his hand settling on her shoulder. He then gives her a trusting nod.
The jungle holds it breath in a moment of eerie silence before the poisoned dart slices through the air with a sharp hiss as it leaves Morana's lungs and finds its mark in the gorol's neck with the gentlest of thuds. The white gorol bleats, panics, and bolts into a stuttering sprint.
The jungle canopy reignites in wild howls and shrill shrieks.
Morana sprints in boundless pursuit of the gorol, crashing through the undergrowth, her swift footsteps splattering through the mud, until the gorol collapses with a juddering thump into a moonlit clearing.
Her father dashes to Morana’s side, brushing a strand of rain-soaked hair from her face with a fleeting proud smile. “You’ve done well, my child.” He places a soft kiss on her forehead, then reaches inside his buckskin bag and tosses her a ball of braided twine. “Bind it.” His command cold to Morana’s ears.
Cold moonlight weaves through the rainforest canopy, casting ghostly silver patterns that dance upon Morana’s tanned skin as she kneels, placing her knee firmly on the gorol’s neck. Her father joins her, and together they weave a long, hollow culm of bamboo between the gorol’s bound legs. Reciting a mantra, they chant in unison, their synchronized fingers trussing paralyzed limbs with practiced precision.
“Come, we must be swift.” Her father nods with approval. “Night falls, and the world awakens.”
They lift the gorol and scramble up a winding ravine until the jungle is far below, with the thundering river Gongal murmuring in the distance. They find purchase on the treacherous ascent, their feet crunching gravel underfoot as they then reach the plateau summit above the cloud forest with panting breaths.
“Take a rest, Morana.” Her father slumps onto his rear and looks up at the stellar night sky. “Ana favors you, sacred one. Our ancestors watched you from their star thrones. A white gorol is an offering they have never seen.” He wipes a tide of sweat from the dunes of his weathered brow.
“What if I’m unworthy?" Morana’s voice quivers with rare uncertainty.
“There are none worthy.” The Shaman smiles and gazes into her eyes with a flash of a father’s pride. “It is Ana who deems you worthy. It is not for you, or I to decide.”
“Ana has deemed none to be worthy.” Morana says, glancing over her shoulder at the towering, snowcapped peaks behind her, which resemble the ominous silhouette of a dragon’s spine set in stone. Her doubting gaze comes to rest on her father.
“That is true, though none have offered such a rare gift on their blood day. Just because the spirit slumbers does not mean Ana has forsaken us.” He fixes Morana with a reassuring stare. “You must believe; only then will Ana take you as his vessel. Ana blessed me with the power to heal and favored your mother with divine sight when she first bled.” Her father nods in sage assurance. “You are now a woman of our blood and a blessing of our sacred unity. There are none like you. We destined it in your name, ‘Morana,’ spirit vessel.” The shaman casts a glance at the Great Moon and then clambers to his feet. “We must go; there are many who have come to witness from beyond our boundaries.” The shaman places a comforting hand on her shoulder. “Believe Morana. You must believe.”
Morana and her father, the shaman, follow the cliff path to a plateau where the village of Goro teems with ritual, singing, and dancing in the shadow of Mount Gorochen. The village pulsates with the hypnotic rhythm of drums, sending vibrations through the stilted huts with rumbling deep beats that reverberate from drum-skins made of stretched hide. Sacred ceremonial smoke wafts through the air, carrying the mingling aromas of fragrant herbs—savory ferns, heady rhododendrons, and citrus-spiced orchids. Tiny fires dot the open spaces between the bamboo huts, where the villagers of Goro gather to warm themselves in the chilly night. Their gnarled fingers weave strands of bamboo or whittle away at carved pipes. Expectant eyes, lit by the flickering flames, stare wide with anticipation as Morana enters the village.
Thrum, thrum, drum. The pulsating rhythm of drums welcomes Morana, her head held high, as she walks toward the village center. Torchlight flickers across Morana's face, painting her features with shifting light that transforms her into a silhouette etched against the night. To her right, a caged, clouded leopard spits out a feral growl. On Morana’s left, falling shit splatters down into a feeding frenzy of squealing toilet pigs beneath the raised huts. Her crane-skin slippers fall softly, crunching on the filthy gravel floor. Morana wears a delicate blush of pink flower pigment on her sun-kissed face, and her oval jade eyes gaze out from beneath charcoal-coated eyelashes.
Morana’s mother, the priestess, Anut, stands with a commanding presence at the top of a sacrificial ladder on a wide bamboo platform. “Ana favors you, my child,” her mother calls down to her as she inhales a deep toke from her carved pipe. The intoxicating poppy smoke is heavy with the bittersweet scents of burnt bread, dried fish, and sweet honey. “An offering of a bear signifies a life of anger and rage, while a boar predicts a life of greed. A gorol foretells a sacred life, but a white gorol is an offering never seen. "You stand before me as a woman, and it is your birthright to hear Ana’s call.” The priestess holds aloft a blood-stained rag, signifying Morana's passage into womanhood, for the gathering village crowd.
Morana lowers her head, weighed down with expectation, as she paces beneath the wooden altar. Her inner doubt echoes with each step.
Morana’s father approaches the sacrificial dais, dragging the white gorol on a woven leash, the mountain goat choking on its dying bleat. He now wears a shaman mask carved into the face of a dragon made from sun-bleached bones, adorned with colorful plumed feathers.
The villagers gather in a single line, forming a long procession, each taking hold of the leash and hoist the gorol up the ladder to the dais. The villagers chant in unison, “Hoi, hoi, hoi.” as Morana’s father loses himself in the realm of shamanic ecstasy. He whirls and swirls, rhythmically chanting and groaning sacred mantras, his eyes rolling as he enters a frenzied trance.
Priestess Anut stands on the sacrificial stage, her eyes rolling back as she raises both arms. Fingers outstretched, she grasps toward Mount Gorochen, invoking the spirit of Ana.
The gorol convulses, choking, as its body clatters up the steep bamboo steps until its head dangles over the edge. Its eyes roll, then fix on Morana below.
Morana looks up to see her firelit reflection staring back at her from the gorol’s panicked eyes, just as her mother’s serrated bone-blade severs the gorol’s throat. A flash of horror washes over face before the warm torrent of thick blood floods over her, filling her nostrils and seeping into her mouth as she stifles a scream.
The priestess, Anut, then drives her crude, bloodied bone-knife deep into the gorol’s chest. Its blood and guts spill as she plucks its still-beating heart from the gaping cavity. She clutches the still beating heart, holding it aloft and presenting it to Mount Gorochen, then drops the organ at Morana’s feet with a wet squelch. “Consume the spirit of Ana,” her mother commands with absolute authority.
Morana collapses to her knees, her blood-slick fingers grasping at the slippery mass. Her mouth descends, sinking her teeth into the warm heart’s glossy flesh. Strands of dark, blood-brown meat dangle from her mouth as she gags, swallowing mouthfuls of the raw heart. She wavers on her feet, retching, as a warming fire breathes in her chest. Her vision darkens, and her knees tremble.
The drums reach a crescendo, then fall into deathly silence.
“Stand, chosen one,” a powerful voice calls from the depths of Morana’s dimming mind. “Release yourself to me.”
Mount Gorochen quakes as a sheet of glacial ice cascades down its sheer slope. Thunderous dark clouds swirl at its peak, punctuated by flashes of purple lightning that illuminate the tempestuous sky. The murderous clouds surge over the surrounding mountains, igniting with swirls of purple lighting, and the storm hurtles down into the valley in a whirling gale with lashing rain.
Morana’s mother falls to her knees, and her mesmerized eyes fix upon a colossal dragon materializing in the thunderous dark clouds above her.
The dragon’s eyes swirl with flickering flames, and its body is formed by the billowing shadows and dense smoke. Its shadowy tail flicks, and its enormous cloud-like wings beat with a furious wind. “Do you comprehend what you have summoned?” The storm dragon’s cruel voice rumbles with superiority. Ana licks his cloudy lips with a wispy tongue. “You dare to summon me with blood magic?” The dragon’s words carry on a wave of nauseating humidity.
Morana stands, swaying on her feet as she remains rooted to the earth, her words stuck in her throat.
The villagers scream in terrified fear, sprinting back to their stilted huts and slamming their doors shut.
Ana looms before Morana with a mesmerizing glow in his fiery eyes as his shadow tongue flicks out to touch her face. “You do not fear me?” The question hangs in the air as he withdraws with a stare of clouded curiosity. “Your father has prepared you well.” Flames ignite in Ana’s predatory eyes as a bolt of lightning strikes her father’s back. With a scream, he falls flat on his scorched face, his charred body hissing in the rain. “Your father served me well.” Ana licks his fangs with a guileful grin, blasting Morana with a scorching breath.
The storm dragon comes a hair's breadth before Morana’s face. “Here you stand when all others before you have fallen.” The dragon’s searing breath blasts through Morana’s blood-matted hair with a dull gravel laugh. “A woman reborn you will be, and the world will crumble before your wandering feet.” The storm dragon gives a shallow snort, then licks his fangs with a playful grin. “Do you so willingly take what I offer?” Ana’s intoxicating voice rumbles, “Do you so lust for a touch of my power?"
Morana stares into the dragon’s serpentine eyes, doubt swirling in her mind, her words held captive by fear. Her heart pounding to the point of erupting from her chest. A scream rises in her throat.
“So be it." Ana lunges forward with a mighty, thunderous roar, consuming Morana within the tumultuous depths of his flaming mouth.
Morana’s world spins amidst raging storm clouds as the inferno surges over her body, engulfing her in blistering flames. She screams in wild agony as her blood boils and her melting skin cracks like a molten eggshell. Morana inhales the stench of her burning flesh as it turns as pitch-black as the darkest night, set like stone, a pillar of charcoal on the scorched earth. The flames subside, and her brittle black crust dissipates with her pain into a cloud of soot.
Morana feels the dragon’s power surging through her body like a raging river of fire, searing her from within. She looks down at her transformed skin and admires her new form, now adorned with endless tattoos. The glossy inked scales of green, black, and gold, each shimmering with conscious splendor, moving as one, alive. In the center of each scale shines an ancient alchemical glyph, glowing with the essence of dragon flame. Her fingertips trace the lines of the inked scales, which ripple at her touch. Morana marvels at the majesty of her transformation, the power intoxicating.
Ana’s cunning eyes dance over her. “You now bear my language, known only to those who crafted its purpose. Me.” Ana’s ghostly shadow claw moves beneath Morana’s chin and lifts her head until their eyes connect. “You shall serve me as I destined it, my flesh and my bones.” Morana meets the dragon’s gaze as its shadowed claw explores her skin. “Look at what I have created." His voice rumbles with lofty pride. “You are as beautiful as my starlight, as chaotic as my wind, and as violent as my oceans.” Ana groans in smug appreciation. “Men will buckle at your beauty, and your honeyed words shall bend all to my will. The power you possess allows you to divine with my eyes and speak my tongue. You shall live infinite lifetimes without age or blemish, but do not forget your mortality. Look to the flames, and you shall find all the answers you seek.” Ana’s giant shadow claw settles on her womb. “You shall love a man as you will love me, and the child you conceive shall also wield the power of me.”
The storm clouds above them recede, and radiant beams of enchanting moonlight wash over Morana. She stares at the heavens in awe as a burst of shining stars sprinkles the sky in a weightless rainbow of lucid splendor. A majestic starlight nebula butterfly materializes in swirling stardust, displaying every color of the rainbow and fluttering in the heavens above. From its celestial body extends a silver-threaded serpent tail, swirling in a cloud of celestial dust. The butterfly’s wings, made of plumes of vaporous scarlet starlight, morph and shimmer in a dazzling display. The nebula’s bright emerald eyes gaze down upon the mountains and jungle below.
Morana’s nebula's celestial form illuminates the tranquil sky.
“All shall look upon your divine sign with the same wonder,” the dragon, Ana, cackles with infinite self-importance. “I will guide you from the heavens I created.”
Morana looks upon her magnificent creator, and her words flow like the sweetest of brooks. “I understand my purpose, my God-fire.” She savors her words and rolls them around her mouth, stroking her morphing body from head to toe and licks her lips. “There’s an insatiable hunger to experience the world as it was first made. To undo all that should never have been made.” Morana twirls around, feeling enraptured by herself. She bites her bottom lip and takes a shuddering breath of pleasure, as Ana’s power surges through her body. “Look at what you have made, my God-fire.” She licks her lustrous lips and twiddles her long, silky hair between her fingers, then falls into contemplative silence. Her mischievous eyes drift to the village. “I'm hungry, my God-fire, let us feast.”
The storm dragon, Ana, takes a step back, tendrils of cloud dripping from his cruel shadow fangs. A hungry growl shakes the earth as Ana stands, poised, on its clouded hind limbs and beats his massive storm wings. The world pauses, then Ana explodes forward, his raging voice filled with arrogance. “Behold me, Ana. The One of Old, The Primordial Father, The Great Creator of all things. How dare you seek the power to master me?” Ana hovers on his colossal wings, whipping up winds that transform into destructive tornadoes. “Now, understand your place in my world. You exist, so I may feed.” Ana unleashes a violent wave of ferocious flames that crashes through the fleeing villagers, engulfing them in a skin-scorching inferno of blistering flames. Their anguished screams fill the night as huts ignite like bundles of dry hay, then explode.
The ravenous fire devours wood, flesh and bone with equal hunger. Morana stares through the choking smoke, the village a hellscape of flames, blistering flesh and the screams of the damned.
Ana's roar of fury incinerates all, the fleeing villagers igniting before they melt like candlewax in a smith's forge. Fragments of wood and flaming bodies soar into the sky, spinning like dandelions in the wind. The burnt bodies of the dead rain down, falling like blistered flesh boulders from the heavens. Ana ascends, hovering over the blazing village, his wings fanning the flames to spread their destruction.
In the jungle below, the great canopies ripple as every living thing flees in a chaotic retreat. Flames dance, and the jungle becomes a sea of cruel fire, illuminating the night.
Ana’s stormy form lands on the smoldering earth with a shuddering thud. “Do not look upon me as I feed. There are things even you should not see. Go now; wander my world and take whatever you desire. Purpose will guide you. In the blink of an age, we shall meet again.” Ana’s cloud claw nudges Morana forward.
Morana strides away from the ashen village with a sense of purpose, ascending the nearest hill and peers up at her celestial nebula. She then steals a glance over her shoulder, where a colossal man made from fire and shadow walks amidst swirling ash and soaring cinders.