The path to Saksaywaman wound upward through terraced slopes, each step taking them higher into the thinning mist. The stones beneath their feet were ancient—worn smooth by centuries of bare feet and sandaled feet and the slow, patient pressure of time itself. Marya walked between the two monks, her golden eyes taking in everything.
Villagers streamed past them in a steady river of color. Women in bright awayos carried baskets of flowers and offerings. Men in geometric-patterned tunics bore wooden staffs wrapped in streamers. Children darted between legs, their laughter cutting through the solemnity that hung in the air like incense smoke.
Bō-Zak jingled with every step.
The sound was impossible to ignore—a constant jingle-jingle-jingle that announced his presence to everyone within a fifty-meter radius. The ceremonial robes moved with him, the bells catching light and sound and turning his walk into a one-man parade.
He caught Marya's eye and grimaced.
"I know," he said. "I know. Don't say it."
She said nothing. Her lips twitched.
Kipa Shiru walked ahead of them, his milky white eyes fixed on the path, his staff of Fixed Salt tapping a slow rhythm against the stones. When he spoke, his voice carried the weight of centuries.
"The Ritual of the Triad has been performed here for eight hundred years," he began. "Every thirty-three years, when the mist thins and the stars align, we gather at this fortress to reenact the world's creation and its preservation."
Marya tilted her head. "Why thirty-three?"
"It is the cycle." Kipa's voice resonated, as if echoing from a deep gorge. "The number of completion. The years it takes for the Fixed Salt to soften, for the Flowing to rise, for the world to exhale."
Jingle-jingle-jingle. Bō-Zak shifted his weight, the bells responding with enthusiasm. "What he means is, it's the amount of time it takes for the monks to forget how annoying this whole production is and decide to do it again."
Kipa's serene expression didn't change, but something in his milky eyes suggested he was mentally counting to ten.
"The ritual has three stages," he continued, ignoring the interruption. "Each corresponds to one of the three realms—Ukhu Pacha, the underworld; Kay Pacha, the living world; and Hanan Pacha, the heavens above."
They passed through a stone gateway carved with spiraling patterns, and the path opened onto a wider terrace. Below them, the festival grounds stretched out like a living map—tiny figures moving between stalls, lanterns glowing like earthbound stars, the distant sound of Vesta's music carrying on the wind.
"The first stage," Kipa said, "is the Slither of the Snake. Dancers in obsidian scales move through the Stone Labyrinth, carrying lead weights to represent the Nigredo—the blackening, the toxic history that the world has tried to forget."
"Sounds cheerful," Bō-Zak muttered. "Really sets the mood."
Marya ignored him. "And the snake represents...?"
"The darkness that must be contained." Kipa's staff tapped against the stone. "The sins of the Void Century. The weight the world carries in its bones."
Bō-Zak opened his mouth.
Kipa held up one hand without turning around.
"No, Bō-Zak, you may not make a joke about the world's sins and your current outfit."
Bō-Zak's mouth closed with an audible click.
Marya's lips twitched again. This time, the smirk almost broke through.
They continued upward, past more terraces, more gateways, more villagers who bowed respectfully to Kipa and stared openly at Bō-Zak's jingling ensemble. The path grew steeper, the stones more worn, the air thinner and cooler.
"The second stage," Kipa continued, "is the Prowl of the Puma. A massive puppet emerges, representing the Fixed Salt—the physical world, the stable ground beneath our feet. It fights the snake, pushing the darkness back into the caves."
"Symbolic wrestling match," Bō-Zak supplied helpfully. "Very dramatic. Lots of sweating under all that puppet."
Kipa's eye twitched. Just slightly.
"And the third stage?" Marya asked.
"The Flight of the Condor." Kipa paused at a switchback, turning to face them both. His milky eyes found Bō-Zak with unsettling accuracy. "A dancer in white feathers leaps from the temple balconies, representing the fluid spirit, the flow that connects all things. The Condor is the bridge between worlds."
Bō-Zak's jingling stopped.
For just a moment, the bells were silent, and in that silence, Marya saw something flicker across his face—something that looked almost like fear.
"That's me," he said quietly. "The Condor."
Kipa nodded. "The vessel of the spirit. The one who carries the flow."
The bells resumed their jingling as Bō-Zak shifted, but the sound was heavier now. Less comical. More like chains.
Marya studied him for a long moment, then turned back to Kipa. "What happens to the Condor during the ritual?"
Kipa's expression didn't change, but something in the air around him shifted—a weight, a pressure, the sense of ancient things watching.
"He dances with death," the old monk said. "And returns. Mostly."
"Mostly?" Marya's eyebrow rose.
"Mostly," Bō-Zak confirmed, his voice dry. "The other times, they have to scrape what's left off the rocks and hope the next Condor has better balance."
Kipa sighed. It was a very long sigh.
"The Condor does not die, Bō-Zak. The spirit protects its vessel."
"The spirit also thought it would be funny to make me wear bells, so forgive me if I don't trust its judgment."
Marya's hand moved to cover her mouth. It might have been a cough.
They walked on.
---
The fortress of Saksaywaman rose before them like a sleeping beast carved from the mountain itself. Massive stone blocks—some weighing more than a hundred tons—fit together without mortar, their edges so perfect that not even a blade could slide between them. The walls zigzagged in defensive patterns, creating alcoves and angles that caught the light in strange ways.
Villagers filled the terraces below, their colorful clothing creating a living carpet that stretched toward the cliffs. Monks in gray robes moved through the crowd with quiet purpose, guiding people to their positions, lighting braziers that sent columns of incense smoke into the air.
At the summit, a flat stone platform overlooked the sea. Three pillars stood at its edges—smaller replicas of the Rokaku, carved with the same symbols: triangle, square, circle. And beyond them, visible through the thinning mist, the real Rokaku rose from the waves like ancient gods keeping watch.
Kipa Shiru stopped at the base of the platform, turning to face them both. His milky eyes found Bō-Zak first, then Marya.
"The ritual will begin at moonrise," he said. "Until then, the Condor prepares."
Bō-Zak's entire body sagged. The bells jingled mournfully.
"Right. Preparation." He looked at Marya, and for a moment, the mask slipped—the smirk faded, the sarcasm died, and she saw something raw underneath. "You'll watch?"
It wasn't a question. It was a plea.
Marya nodded. "I'll watch."
Something in Bō-Zak's eyes softened. He opened his mouth to speak—probably something flirtatious, probably something to break the tension—but Kipa's hand on his shoulder steered him toward the platform.
"Come, Condor. The bells wait for no man."
Bō-Zak's parting glance at Marya said everything his words couldn't. Then he turned and walked toward his place among the pillars, his jingling steps carrying him into the heart of the ritual.
Marya found a spot at the edge of the crowd, her back against a massive stone block, her golden eyes fixed on the platform. Nisshoku hummed against her back—not loudly, just enough to remind her it was there. The black veins on her arms tingled.
Around her, the crowd settled into reverent silence. The drums began—slow, deep, like the heartbeat of the earth itself. The mist swirled at the edges of the fortress, held at bay by something Marya couldn't see but could feel—a pressure, a presence, the weight of eight hundred years of ritual.
The sun dipped toward the horizon.
The moon rose.
And the Ritual of the Triad began.
---
Darkness fell like a curtain.
Not the gradual fading of light, but an instant—one moment the last rays of sun painted the sky in shades of crimson and gold, the next, the world was swallowed by shadow.
Torches flared to life around the platform, their flames casting dancing light across the stones. The crowd stood in solemn silence.
From the labyrinth beneath the fortress, a sound emerged.
Slithering.
The scrape of scales on stone.
Dancers emerged from the darkness below—dozens of them, their bodies painted in obsidian scales, their movements sinuous and slow. They carried lead weights in their hands, dragging them across the stones with a sound like chains. Their eyes were hollow, their faces masks of suffering.
The Snake.
They moved through the crowd without touching anyone, without looking at anyone, following a path that had been worn into the stone over centuries. They slithered toward the sea, toward the mist, toward the place where the Nigredo Vessel waited in the deep.
Marya watched, her expression unreadable.
The drums shifted.
A new sound joined them—heavy, rhythmic, like the footfalls of a great beast. From the opposite side of the platform, the Puma emerged.
It was a puppet, but calling it that felt wrong. Massive and intricate, it moved with a life of its own, its wooden joints flexing, its painted eyes glowing in the torchlight. Dozens of monks worked its mechanisms from within, their movements synchronized, their breathing a single pulse.
The Puma prowled toward the Snake.
They met in the center of the platform.
And they fought.
Not a real fight—a dance, a ritual, a reenactment of something ancient and terrible. The Snake struck, and the Puma dodged. The Puma lunged, and the Snake coiled. Back and forth they moved, the drums building, the crowd leaning forward, the very air vibrating with tension.
Marya's hand found Nisshoku's hilt.
She didn't draw. She just... touched it. For comfort.
The battle reached its peak. The Puma reared, massive paws raised, and brought them down on the Snake. The dancers collapsed, their obsidian scales catching the light one last time before they lay still.
The Snake was defeated.
For now.
The crowd exhaled.
And then—
Pan-pipes.
High and pure, cutting through the night like blades of sound. They came from above, from the temple balconies, from the very cliffs themselves. The monks of the Ryu-Sen played in unison, their music weaving a net of melody that caught the stars and pulled them closer.
Marya looked up.
Bō-Zak stood at the edge of the highest balcony, his white feathers catching the moonlight, his silhouette outlined against the sky. The bells were silent now—he had removed them, or the ritual had, or something else had taken their place. He stood motionless, a statue carved from light and shadow.
Then he jumped.
Marya's breath caught.
He fell—straight down, arms spread, feathers streaming behind him. The crowd gasped. Children hid their eyes. Old women clutched their awayos.
And then, at the last possible moment, he changed.
The Condor erupted from his falling form—massive wings, golden eyes, a cry that split the night. It soared over the crowd, over the platform, over the Puma and the fallen Snake and the three pillars that marked the boundaries of the world.
Bō-Zak. The Condor. The flow between worlds.
He circled once, twice, three times.
And then he dove toward the sea, toward the Rokaku, toward the place where the Nigredo Vessel waited in the deep.
Marya stepped forward without thinking, her hand reaching toward the darkness where he'd disappeared.
The drums stopped.
The pan-pipes faded.
The crowd was ominously silent.
And somewhere beneath the waves, in a place no living person had seen for eight hundred years, the Condor danced with death.
Marya waited.
The mist swirled.
And the night stretched on, endless and terrible and beautiful, as the ritual did what rituals always do—it held the world together for one more cycle.
For now.
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