In the realm of Palasia, where the Silver Church's iron grip extends across the continent, the conquered Illuri people still cling to the old ways, praying to spirits that have grown quiet. At the heart of this struggle are four souls bound by fate:...
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Crackling flames tore through the blue-black night, adding to the chorus of rustling trees and buzzing insects.
Beside the Halunayu Beach was the largest settlement of the southern tribes. A massive bonfire burned at the centre, its light washing the straw houses, huts, and granaries with an orange glow as if the timbre and thatched roofs were instead woven corals and seashells.
The Amagilan tribe was the largest of their brothers in the south and held the most influence. Collectively, their people called themselves Illuri, which in the tribes' common language of Illurak meant 'the keepers', for they believed they were keepers of nature, born from the earth and sworn to protect it.
The Illuri spoke many tongues, but Illurak was most common and sacred of them all. However, there was little to stop the Illuri from speaking the other tongues. All around Liwani, his people spoke in dialects that sounded completely foreign to him. He did not bother learning the other tongues. Why would he? Everyone prostrated themselves before him, speaking only the tongue he favoured. Perhaps, they could not be faulted.
Twelve years ago, he was found unconscious in one of the boats of Apo Arogawi, the chieftain of the Amagilan. They knew he was Illuri from the sight of him, but not quite. His skin was brown, but not as dark as the Illuri's whose skin were the colour of suntanned lumber or black heartwood. His nose was flatter and wider than the pink-skins in the north, but still more pointed than any of the tribesmen's. And while the Illuri's eyes were brown, Liwani's were storm grey. But perhaps most peculiar of all was his hair, his curls tighter than any pink-skin's but looser than any Illuri's, its colour akin to a hoary stream, the current pulling and trapping moonlight within its waves.
Apo Arogawi used to tell him how he found him, already the size of a healthy sturgeon. He would say that the spirits have grown quiet. Storms frequented the shores and the seas were so ruthlessly cruel that their boats were rendered useless. But ever since the strangest babe was found in that boat, the storms stopped, instead replaced by welcome rains and quiet seas, and a feast of roasted fishes, boiled squids, spiced crabs, and fragrant rice always came to the table of the Amagilan.
Because of this, many soon believed Liwani to be the vessel of a spirit. One that had finally listened to their prayers. And so, the curious child was named as such after the spirit of the moon and the tides. He was no man. He was above men. Above mortal understanding. The divine. And Liwani hated it.
He was a man. He had the cock to prove it. But spirits of nature did not have cocks or cunts. He could not marry. He could not love. He could not father any children. He was expected to just be. A living, breathing epicene symbol of hope and yet Liwani felt anything but hopeful.
Liwani's eyes spied the dancing Illuri, their bodies twirl and their limbs graze against the sand as they commemorate the night their spirit had returned to them. No one knew how old he was and perhaps it did not matter. No one cared. All they cared about was proximity. How close could they get to touching the divine.
