"Jiro!" Nana Ricka's voice woke Jiro in the late morning.

He jolted up, sitting on his banig, his eyes still half-closed. A distant thrumming rang in his ears—the beating of gongs. The rhythm jogged his memory with the familiar tune for oncoming outsiders.

"Jiro!" his mother called again.

"I'm awake! What is it?" His eyes shot open, and he rushed out of his room to find his mother outside the door of their hut, leaning on the veranda's railing. "What's happening?" he asked as he peeked outward.

Some of their neighbors floated out of their houses, and some looked out from their open doors and windows. They all gazed at the valley below their plateau.

Jiro squinted at a gush of dust. A short parade of marching people escorted a carriage. The vanguard of the company rode on nyxes, wearing dark green livery. The bannerman proudly carried the green color of Ozaro as they moved toward the mountainside.

"Is that the Kahani?" One of the floating Aradacko said.

"Oh! Queen Ara! Here?" Nana Ricka gasped in response. "What in the thundering skies is she doing here? These royals bring no good fortune to our city."

"It's not the Kahani, mama," Jiro said.

"How can you tell?" Nana Ricka turned to him. A sheen of oil coated her forehead, where beads of sweat rounded into bubbles as the heat of the day only grew.

"The banner." He pointed. "It's the color of Ozaro, but they don't carry the crest."

Nana Ricka turned back to the valley. It took a while before she spoke again. "You always have a good eye, don't you?" His mother noted. "But they are still from Kazima. From the Ozaro Palace." She scowled.

As the convoy neared, the beating of gongs halted, and the Aradacko descended to the bottom of the cliff.

They whispered expectations of the Kahani or the Matu's visit—whispers of unwelcome—and Jiro shared the distaste for their guests.

"Come. Let's go and see," Nana Ricka said as she kicked from the veranda and floated off.

Jiro remembered the last time someone from the Ozaro Palace visited. Two years ago, the Kaharaza himself came to their island. A parade of men and women marched like this, and their gongs beat in the same rhythm. The Aradacko welcomed the Kaharaza then. And when he ordered the Rakitt Maharlika to fight in his war, the warriors followed him with faith and loyalty. Many of the Rakitt Maharlika didn't return home from the war—Jiro's father was among them.

Jiro breathed in the warm air and sighed before he floated down to follow his mother to the valley below, where a glade spread at the foot of the mountain.

The Aradacko farmers had built humble huts among the tree lines that gave way to the open field. Most of the island's agriculture rested here, starting on the pedestal of the mesa where the cultivations created the giant steps that followed the curvature of the mountain's base—the rice terraces.

From above, Jiro saw the sharp lines that sculpted the soil. A land with beautiful geometric shapes tattooed on its surface—the rice fields. The summer yellow of the grains turned the terrain golden, which meant that harvest season was near.

Many of the Aradacko had already gathered when Jiro and his mother landed. The Maharlika clustered in their woven zarok clothes, creating a sea of black and red waves. They were all almost the same, dark-skinned, dark-haired, and silver-eyed. Now, they also share a unanimous expression of curiosity and distaste.

At the front of the gathered crowd stood the Kavisera, the head of their city, a large man wearing headgear with feathers that emphasized his authority. He bore his torso and showed his tattooed skin. The inked patterns crawled over his muscles from his neck to his wrists to his waist, where his bolo and kampit hung from his belt.

To Jiro, he was the image of a true Maharlika, a warrior born, standing with an unwavering posture, waiting for their guests.

The sound of stomping and rolling wooden wheels grew louder as the parade came to the plane. The marching men and women stopped before the Aradacko, halting into disciplined lines.

The head of the party was a female soldier who rode on a nyx, a large domesticated feline with brown fur and dark spots and long curved horns pulled back like a carabao's.

The soldier jumped off her ride—a rifle slung over her shoulder as two more nyxes dragged a carriage to the center of the procession.

The sight of the gun made Jiro nervous. Only soldiers were allowed to carry such expensive and powerful weapons. And as soon as he saw it, he found the rest. Guns rested on the shoulders of everyone in the parade who rode on nyxes.

The woman stepped forward and addressed them. "Aradacko of Aradack," she said in a low but loud voice. "I present your guests, Eskolar Kida of the Ozaro Palace and Master Hatari of the Keepers, Keeper of Knowledge, and Keeper of the Head."

The carriage door swung open, and an aged woman in a red karkan stepped out. Her chin lifted, and her eyes moved over the Maharlika before she climbed down, landing with a slow, graceful movement.

A younger woman in green karkan followed the Maestra.

Jiro immediately saw the thread of bones that dangled on her hip. Darish, he noted.

The younger woman looked over the Aradacko, searching their faces until they landed on Jiro. As if confused, she frowned, then blinked, and her eyes widened at something realized.

He returned her gaze, taking in her eyes that turned fiery.

The Eskolar only looked away when the Maestra started to speak.

"Ah." Master Hatari walked closer to the crowd. "I have not been here for such a long time. You had a different Kavisera last I was here."

Jiro felt odd about how the Eskolar looked at him, but he shrugged it off. It might have only been his imagination. Why would a woman of her status give him any attention?

The Kavisera stepped forward and bowed with his hand to his heart. "Welcome to Aradack," he said. "What is your business here?"

"We have come to Aradack by order of the Kahani, Queen Ara, Keeper of the Kingdom." The Maestra reached into the pocket of her karkan and pulled out a letter, handing it to the Kavisera. "We would like to discuss matters with you in private." She smiled and glanced at the rest of the flyers. She seemed quite thin under her clothes, her cheeks sunk deep into her face, her long white hair reached her chest, and her brown skin was much paler than any Darackan man or woman Jiro had seen.

The Kavisera opened the letter and read its contents in silence.

Jiro craned his neck, but he was too far to see anything, even with his excellent vision.

"Very well. We will set a tent for you to rest," the Kavisera said as he folded back the letter. Then he turned to the Aradacko behind him. "We will have a Kariao for our guests tonight."

The people cheered.

Kariao was a feast—a gathering to celebrate. It was usually exercised at the end of each season after harvesting to thank the forgotten gods for the healthy crops. It was also practiced to welcome guests to Aradack, and the flyers rallied in a chorus of excitement.

"Did you hear that, mama?" Jiro said. "A Kariao tonight!" He turned to his mother with a grin, but his smile fell apart when he saw her hand pressed to her chest. "Are you alright, mama?" he asked, touching her shoulder.

Though she smiled, there was something forced about how her lips curved as if she was in pain. She coughed once and relaxed—the frustration on her features was gone in an instant. "I'm alright," she answered and looked up at him. "We need to help with the preparations. Let's show these Kazish how we treat guests here even when they're not welcome."

✧

When evening came and the dusky gloom of the night took over the islands, the gongs started to beat again. This time, they thrummed in a rhythm of invitation, calling for the Aradacko to feast.

Jiro's shoulders ached from carrying barrels of ramka all afternoon, but his pain subsided when he looked out through their window to see the light of the torches below. Shadows moved like crawling insects in the dark, and firelight flickered like stars.

He walked out on the veranda, wearing only his trousers and the band on his arm with a single feather, his chest and feet bare. He paused where the railing ended and looked down hundreds of feet below.

The Kariao had begun.

But before he could jump off the edge, a scratching noise came from behind him. He turned and watched the bundles of dried nipa leaves on the roof. A small creature moved in the dark, and he stiffened, eyes focusing on the motion, but when the shadow came into the flickering light of a gas lamp, he grinned. He couldn't quite see the details of its small body, but he knew what it was. A kukatra unfolded its wings and crouched on its four legs.

"Thank you for blessing our house," Jiro said as he pressed a hand to his heart and bowed without looking away from the creature.

The Aradacko believed that kukatras were pets of the forgotten god of the sky—blessed bat-like animals. Its presence was a gift.

The Kukarta tilted its head as if it understood him. Then it spread its wings, sharp-edged and more extensive than its body, lifting itself from the roof and flying up to the cliffs.

Jiro watched it vanish into the darkness before returning to the valley below. He leaped off from the veranda and allowed the world to pull him. The flicker of time between the jump and the ground slowed. His stomach flipped, and the air in his lungs burst out. It was an exhilaration he would never tire of—the speed, the sensation of falling, and the knowledge that he could die a horrible death if he hit the ground. He felt it every time he jumped.

Right before he approached death, he kicked his leg in the air, giving himself a Lift. The power surged from his legs and backbone, reverberating through the lower part of his body. It slowed his fall and decreased his acceleration until his bare feet touched the grassy plane in a hop.

Still smiling, he glanced around where the Aradacko gathered in groups and partners, filling the glade with merriment. Like him, most men bared their chests, some completely naked from the waist up, while others wore open vests. The women fashioned shorter coverings, wearing wraparound skirts—the younger preferred vests or chest wraps that exposed the curves of their shoulders and bellies, while the elders favored displaying their breasts.

At the center of the Kariao, Jiro found his mother speaking with the Kavisera. She looked small beside the man.

Jiro had worried earlier about how she clutched her chest and coughed, but she seemed fine now with a smile plastered on her face.

When Jiro made his way to them, Nana Ricka saw him first. "There you are," she said.

The Kavisera nodded to him, then turned back to Nana Ricka and said something in a whisper, his words drowning in the music. Nana Ricka smiled, and the Kavisera turned and left.

"What were you talking about?" Jiro asked, stepping up to his mother.

Nana Ricka said nothing, only continued to smile.

"Is it about the Maestra and the Eskolar?" Jiro pressed.

Silent laughter shook Nana Ricka's shoulders as if his curiosity was a jest. She didn't answer him. Instead, she diverted their attention, looking to the dancing crowd. For a moment, she appeared withdrawn—a twitch on the side of her lips gave her a saddened smile.

"Your father and I loved Kariao's," Nana Ricka finally spoke. She looked distant, reminiscing. "We loved dancing. If he hadn't asked me to dance that first time, I wouldn't have known he liked me. He used to be so crass with me." Then the sorrow on her smile turned to delight, a fond memory.

Hearing his mother speak this way about his father made Jiro's chest ache. He considered her with an unblinking gaze, swallowing the soreness in his throat. Two years had not been long enough to heal the wound in their hearts. "I miss him, too, mama."

Nana Ricka sighed. "I think I should get back home."

"But I just got here. Aren't you staying for the sacrifice?"

"I've already seen too many sacrifices. This one for our guests is not worth watching." Nana Ricka winked at him. "And skies, do you want to spend the Kariao with your mother?"

Jiro didn't mind staying with her, but he admitted that he also wanted to enjoy the feast with the other kids his age. He hadn't meant to give a reaction, but Nana Ricka caught how he paused, and she laughed.

"You should enjoy the night." She patted him on the shoulder before flying up to the cliffside.

"Was that Nana Ricka?" Tatri stood beside Jiro, and he jumped in surprise. Her gaze followed upward to where his mother had flown.

How could he not have seen her there? "Yes," he said. A hard thumping in his chest grew at the sight of her, and heat spread over his cheeks.

"Did she go home?" Tatri's bright silver eyes stared into his.

Jiro nodded, and an unsteady breath quaked his lungs. His eyes trailed down to her clothes. Her short skirt showed the length of her legs. Her breast wrap exposed the honey skin of her stomach and her collar, which was decorated with a necklace of varying stones and shells.

"Is she coming back?" Tatri asked.

Jiro shook his head.

"So you're by yourself now?" Tatri gave him a sweet smile, the light dancing in her round eyes.

Jiro regarded her before nodding.

Tatri smiled with satisfaction. "Let's get some ramka." She took his wrist and guided him to the barrels of fermented drinks.

They moved through the crowd, and Tatri laced her arms around his, pressing her side to his bicep, skin to skin. Their closeness made him hold his breath, her soft curves leaning against him until they reached the barrels, and she let him go.

Tatri grabbed two half coconut shells from a pile and handed one to him. "The sacrifice will start soon," she said. "I haven't seen the guests yet."

Jiro composed himself before he answered. "I haven't either." His voice shook, and he hoped she didn't hear it. He wasn't a timid boy, but around her, he didn't know how to act normally. He turned away from her, shaking the nervousness off his shoulders, and placed his coconut shell under the spigot of a barrel, pouring himself a drink, and Tatri did the same.

When they faced each other again, her face caught the light. Her cheeks were flushed, and her eyes drooped.

Ramka was a favored Darackan drink made from fermented grains of rice. It was intense and intoxicating, and Tatri seemed to be experiencing those effects before she'd even approached Jiro.

"Do you dance?" she asked him, a sweet smile playing on her lips.

"No." Jiro shook his head. It was a lie, and he was unsure why he'd said it. He liked to dance, but he wasn't very good.

Tatri might have known the untruthfulness in his tone because she squinted but said nothing.

Many Aradacko waved their hands to the sky and skipped to the beating of gongs, most already drunk.

When Tatri swayed to the music, Jiro knew that she was drunk too.

"Would you like to dance?" He asked with hesitation.

Tatri giggled. "I thought you said you don't dance."

Jiro pressed his lips together, a little embarrassed.

"It's alright. You don't have to dance, Jiro. You can watch me if you like." Tatri raised her arm—her hand started in graceful stroking movements, the other still holding the coconut shell with ramka. Her hips followed, then her feet. She danced around him, mimicking the gestures of a bird.

Jiro recognized the sequence of steps—a courtship dance. Heat rushed up to his neck, and he wasn't sure if he should start to sway or stay there and watch her. He looked away as soon as he realized he was staring, and she giggled.

"Why are you so shy?" Tatri moved closer to him. The sweet and bitter smell of ramka coiled with her breath. She was so near that if he dared, he could pull her and press her against his body, wrap her in his arms, and... kiss her.

Tatri laughed and stepped back, sipping her cup.

"Tatri. There you are." Someone called from behind them.

Jiro hadn't noticed that Hako and Shoka had walked up to them. And now they watched as Tatri danced before him. A shameful heat rushed over Jiro's back and neck.

"Jiro," Shoka greeted him.

Hako stepped between Jiro and Tatri, grinning at the girl. "You've been drinking?" he asked her as he took her cup and drank from it, then gave it back.

"Only a little," she said.

"I saw your mother earlier," Shoka spoke again, and Jiro looked at him. He wore an open vest, exposing the part of his chest where his ribs met. An armband roped around his upper arm with a single black-spotted white feather.

"She headed home," Jiro said and drank his ramka, feeling the cut edge of the coconut shell graze his lips as he turned away from Hako and Tatri.

"She didn't wait to see the Kazish?" Shoka asked. His youthful features reflected the dim firelight.

Jiro shrugged and drank again.

"Why do you think they're here?" It was Tatri who asked, and Jiro couldn't help but glance at her.

"I heard the Kahani is looking to hire hunters." A grin stretched over Hako's face, tugging at the scar over his nose.

"That's good for you?" Tatri said.

"For me and Shoka, it is. But, unfortunately, they're not looking to hire trackers, Jiro." Hako stared at him.

An uneasy silence fell over Jiro, half expecting Hako to mock him.

"The guests will be out soon, I think. Let's get near the sacrifice." Shoka stepped forward before his brother said anything more. He placed a hand on the small of Tatri's back and guided her from the barrels of ramka.

Jiro moved to follow them, but Hako stopped him with a hand on his shoulder.

Hako glared at Jiro. "Stay here." He squeezed Jiro's shoulder hard enough that the pain made Jiro wince, then released him with a shove.

The three of them, Hako, Shoka, and Tari, walked away, Jiro staring as they went. Tatri didn't even look back.

Humiliated, Jiro cursed silently at Hako. Anger bloomed in his chest, but he suppressed it. He didn't want to fight. He understood why Hako acted the way he did, and there was nothing he could do to change it.

He swallowed the last of his drink and was ready for another pour when someone bumped into him. He swayed, the fermented drink surging in his mind. His legs wavered, and he caught onto the person who collided with him.

"Jiro?" the tall woman said, holding him by the arms to keep him on his feet.

"Mariko?" He recognized her face framed by her short hair that reached only to her chin. A woman in her early fourth decade like his mother. One of the older Rakitt Maharlika who survived the war, lean and strong-muscled, holding him with a firm grip.

"Are you drunk?" Mariko asked. "Where's Nana Ricka?"

"She wen' home," Jiro said, his tongue heavy in his mouth, the words coming out in a mumble. He found his footing before Mariko released him.

"Then you should go home, too," she suggested before walking away and disappearing into the gathering as if she was in a hurry.

The effect of the ramka took hold of him fast. He shook the milkiness from his eyes and glanced at the crowd, trying to see where Mariko was headed. He turned from right to left, but she was gone, merged into the collection of swaying bodies.

Jiro returned to the barrel to refill his empty cup and began to drink again. His face warmed with the alcohol, and a smile crawled over his lips. As he drank more, the faces around him obscured, making him blink several times before his vision focused.

A face became clear. A woman on her bare feet stood among the crowd, wearing a zarok skirt and breast wrap. She exposed her skin—a shade of warm honey—to the humid night air. Her dark hair came down in heavy waves over her shoulders and back. Her attire was of the Aradacko, but to Jiro, she was an outsider.

Her eyes gave her away. They were not silver like the glittering lake under a full moon. Instead, they were bright orange swirled with red like the flames surrounding the glade.

Jiro had seen her earlier when she had worn a green karkan. She was the woman from Kazima. Eskolar Kida.

As if she sensed Jiro watching her, she turned to look at him. Their eyes locked, and they held each other's gaze for a long moment before she moved, making her way toward him.

Jiro's heart pounded fast. He gave awe to her beauty and at something about her that kept him rooted to where he stood. He felt wonder and even fear.

The Eskolar stopped a few paces away without breaking the lock between their stares—even when she blinked, she held his gaze. She took another step closer. "You," she said.

"I—" Jiro began, but his thoughts didn't proceed with instruction for his tongue. He stepped back as his heart pounded harder and started to hurt. He knew this feeling. He had experienced it many times before.

Damn the skies. If he stayed any longer, he'd be rolling on the dirt, hugging himself in the middle of the Kariao.

He needed to escape, and his legs responded, backing away and giving himself the strength to continue to move. He took a step back once more—twice, thrice—until he could create a Lift, kick off the ground, and fly, turning away from the Eskolar. But before he could get far, he glanced back at her, catching her fiery eyes as she watched him float from the center of the Kariao.

.