Part 6: Lives
We knelt before the altar in the Vault of Knowledge’s temple, hands still clasped tightly. The silence around us wasn’t heavy like in the Golden Wasteland or the Vault’s lower floors—it was soft, a space for thought. For a long while, neither moved. We’d seen so much: the beauty of Daylight Prairie, the sorrow of the Hidden Forest, the glory of Valley of Triumph, the despair of Golden Wasteland, and the quiet tragedy of the Vault. We’d freed Ancestors, absorbed their stories, felt their joy and grief as if they were our own.
She tilted her head, eyes questioning. Did we do the right thing? Digging up their pain?
I squeezed her hand, glancing at the starry dome. Then I thought of the Candle-Maker and his brother, the Star-Gazer watching the stars, the Bellringer tending to his flowers, the Woodcutter’s guilt, the Spectator cheering for strangers, the Survivor hiding in fear, the Scholar clinging to knowledge until the end. I nodded. They weren’t just shadows. They were people. Their stories deserved to be remembered.
She nodded back, her shoulders relaxing. Then her brow furrowed again. What’s next? The Ancestors’ stories are over. What about ours?
That question hung in the air. We were children dropped into a broken world with no memories, only the urge to keep going. But maybe “going” wasn’t the only answer. Maybe we needed to stop, to breathe, to remember that life wasn’t just about journeys and sacrifices.
As if the Vault heard our unspoken thoughts, a warm glow wrapped around us. It wasn’t the harsh light of candles or the Dragon’s shadow—it was gentle, like the clouds of Daylight Prairie, like the first light of dawn on Dawn Island. When it faded, we weren’t in the Vault anymore.
We were home.
Cloud Nest.
The air smelled of fresh candle wax and blooming flowers, not dust or decay. The abandoned village we’d left was gone—replaced by a bustling, lively place where light danced in every corner. The stone tablet carved with “Cloud Nest” was clean, its letters glowing softly. And there, by the river, stood the Candle-Maker and the little spirit, smiling as they handed a lit candle to a young child like us.
They spotted us and waved, faces lighting up. We ran to them, and the little spirit threw his arms around our legs in a warm hug. The Candle-Maker clapped his hands, and from around the corner, other Ancestors emerged: the Star-Gazer, pointing at constellations for a group of curious children; the Bellringer, showing a few kids how to pluck flowers and arrange them around the bells, which now rang clear and bright; the Woodcutter, planting saplings in a small garden, eyes soft with hope; even the Scholar, sitting under a tree with scrolls, tracing symbols for a circle of wide-eyed kids.
It was a miracle. The Ancestors, once trapped in sorrow and darkness, were now living again—not as ghosts, but as guides, friends, family. And we weren’t alone. Dozens of children ran through the village: some chasing fireflies that glowed like tiny candles; some flying clumsily on their cloaks, crashing into clouds and laughing; some sitting with Ancestors, absorbing stories; others helping tend gardens or polish temple bells.
Each child was different. There was a quiet one who sat with the Scholar, copying symbols on stone; a bold one who raced through clouds, gesturing for others to follow; a kind one who helped the Woodcutter water saplings and patted the little spirit’s shoulder when he lingered near his brother. My friend and I joined them, days filled with simple joys. We flew with the Bellringer, learning to ride the wind without crashing; we watched stars with the Star-Gazer, following his finger to name constellations; we helped the Candle-Maker dip wicks into wax, fingers sticky but hearts light.
At night, everyone gathered around a large fire pit. The Ancestors shared stories through gestures and faint memories—not just war and loss, but better times: festivals in Valley of Triumph where figures danced under stars, picnics in Daylight Prairie where flowers bloomed year-round, quiet evenings in the Vault where scholars smiled and nodded over scrolls. The children shared adventures too: pointing to the sky where they first fell, mimicking the way they lit candles for Ancestors, hugging friends they’d met.
This was life—colorful, messy, warm. It wasn’t perfect. We still remembered the darkness, the Dragon, the black water and fallen warriors. But here, in Cloud Nest, we found something precious: belonging, joy, a place to call home. For the first time since falling like a meteor into this world, I didn’t feel lost. I felt at peace.
We stayed like this for a long time, long enough to forget the weight of the journey, long enough to believe this happiness could last forever. The Ancestors smiled more, the children laughed louder, and Cloud Nest thrived—proof that even in a broken world, light could rebuild, heal, create something beautiful.
