The entity does not begin with spectacle.
It begins with place.
A hollow in the land—worn smooth by feet, by seasons, by waiting. Not a theatre, not a temple. An old gathering ground shaped by use rather than design. Earth dips naturally, forming a wide bowl where the village comes when words must be carried farther than voices allow.
Stone markers rise unevenly from the soil, half-swallowed by grass and moss. They are not carved with pride, but with patience. Faded lines run through them—some sharp and angular, others softened by rain. Among them, traces of old script remain:
Protect
Remember
The knot doesn't disappear
Protect. Remember. The bond does not vanish.
The wind moves through tall grasses at the edges of the hollow, carrying the scent of damp earth and woodsmoke. Above it all, the land climbs—a long, quiet rise of rock and green. High ground. Watching ground.
They gather without signal. Women first, then others—elders, children lingering at the edges. No banners. No finery. This place does not ask for it.
They stand barefoot on the ground, feeling its weight, its memory.
The first sound is breath.
Low. Measured. Shared.
Then the chant begins—not sung forward, but drawn up, as if the earth itself exhales through them.
"Aa—ho—na… aa—ho—na…"
The sound is ancient, older than language, shaped by mouths that have learned to endure more than they explain. It rolls outward across the hollow, then upward, toward the rise.
“We are awake,” they say—not loudly, but together.
“We endure.”
Firelight flickers in shallow pits, more warmth than light. Faces glow and fade. Some are young. Some have carried this sound longer than memory.
“We step forward—
because she never stepped back.”
The ground listens.
“Ee—la—rae… ee—la—rae…”
The wind stills, as if pausing to hear its own name spoken.
“We wandered the maze.
The turning was ours.”
The chant lowers, settling into the chest.
“No grand ending—
only the keeping of the name.”
The name moves through them like a current, not claimed, not crowned.
“Dii—oh—neh…”
On the rise beyond the hollow, something vast shifts.
He is not close. He never is.
A silhouette rests against the night sky—part mountain, part shadow, part living watchfulness. Mane-like ridges catch the faintest light. A lion’s presence. A dragon’s patience. May-Lion.
He does not descend.
He does not approach.
He watches.
The women’s voices thin to breath.
“We call to you,” they murmur,
“Watcher of the Between.”
For a moment, the world holds still—not in fear, but in recognition.
Then the answer comes.
Not as sound alone, but as pressure, as certainty, as something felt behind the ribs.
“I hear you.”
The words do not travel. They arrive.
Relief moves through the hollow like water finding level ground.
“She did not fear,” the voices rise again, steadier now.
“So we do not turn away.”
“We stand where she stood,
unafraid.”
They do not look at him directly. Respect is not distance—it is knowing where to stand.
“We step forward.
We endure.”
High above them, May-Lion lowers his great head, just enough for the village to feel the weight of his attention.
“Then you are held,”
the presence says.
“And the gate remains.”
The wind returns.
The grasses move again.
Life resumes its quiet work.
And the story begins—not with grandeur, but with a promise kept from afar.