Chapter 2: The Riddle of the Cascading Valleys
Chapter 2: The Gate of Four Unshadowed Words
Dawn barely grazed the jagged line of the peaks when Cyrus roused from a night of shallow, twitching sleep. Mist hugged the slopes like a secret, curling thick around every root and stone. Ant, already jittery, picked at the laces of his boots and whistled tunelessly. Elf dusted crumbs from her cloak, inspecting every new gadget as if it might bite.
“Ready?” Elf grinned, wide awake, a mismatched sock poking out of one muddy boot. “Adventure waits for no apprentice—nor anxious sidekick.”
Ant grimaced. “I’m not anxious. Just hungry. And cold.”
Cyrus stuffed a slice of honeyed festival bread in his pack, eyes tracing the path ahead. The Cascading Valleys—spoken of in every fireside tale—waited beyond a meadow thick with blue asters. Suspended rope bridges swayed between stone arches, disappearing into a haze that seemed alive. High above, the first rays of the sun were caught and flung down by dappled ridges and the veils of falling water that gave the valleys their name. Yet something more than mist trailed the ground, something colder.
The air rippled, and the ground beneath their boots hummed like a plucked string. From the looming valley mouth a shadow distilled—at first a patch of unnatural dark, then a whisper, then the hint of a face flickering in the rocks.
The Living Shadow—quieter now, but no less dangerous—spoke in a voice that echoed inside their bones.
“You may climb as high as hope, but none pass through without leaving something behind.”
Before them, the path was blocked by a colossal gate, carved straight from the mountain. Its surface crawled with shimmering runes that pulsed in purple and silver, impossibly alive. Four circular hollows yawned in its center, each glowing with faint, elusive light.
Elf pressed forward, eyes sharp. “It’s a puzzle gate! Of course it is. Legends said it was lost centuries ago, but the best fun is never conveniently located.”
The Shadow’s form sharpened near the carved symbols, smirking. “Four words,” it pronounced, “never once touched by shadow. Whisper them aloud, bring them to light, or turn back as the valley claims you.”
Ant huffed. “Words that never touched shadow? Does that mean, like, literal sun? Or—”
Elf tapped her temple. “It’s trickier. Shadow touches almost everything—fear, secrets, even the happiest things sometimes. But not—well, maybe if we’re clever…”
Cyrus’s mind flashed to mornings with his father, long ago: up before dawn, walking with empty lanterns down dew-laced paths, his father’s hand warm and steady. What did he most remember? The laughter that seemed to ride the sunbeams. Promises made—‘I’ll teach you every flame there is.’ Hope, as certain as daybreak.
He cleared his throat. “Hope. Laughter. Promise.”
Ant looked startled, then softened. “Dawn. No shadows at dawn, right? Only light climbing in.”
Elf beamed. “Nice. That’s four.”
Cyrus stepped forward and spoke each word aloud, his voice steadier with each syllable. “Hope. Laughter. Promise. Dawn.”
As each word rang out, a circle in the gate burst alight—first gold, then blue, then green, then rose-pink. The carvings twisted and the entire rock-face quivered, emitting a sound as if a thousand windchimes whispered in unison. The massive gate shuddered, trembling like something waking from centuries of sleep, and then, with a low groan, it split apart down the center. Mist billowed, as if the mountain were exhaling secrets, and the way into the valleys opened before them.
Elf clasped Cyrus’s shoulder. “That was wizard work, friend. There’s more to you than oil cans and dust.”
Cyrus blushed, modest but proud.
Ant peered into the gorge ahead. A stone path zigzagged down through fields of enormous, dew-jeweled ferns, vanishing into swathes of rolling vapor. High above, rope bridges strung like fragile spiderwebs flickered between promontories.
“Who actually built these?” Ant wondered, staring at a bridge that spun around itself in the wind.
Elf wrinkled her nose. “Probably the same lunatics who make riddle-gates. Or clever mountain spirits. Or bored vultures. Either way, don’t look down.”
They trekked deeper, paths splitting and blending as clouds danced about their feet. Echoes were everywhere, bouncing off every surface, making it hard to tell trick from trail. Now and then, a misplaced footstep became two; a secret thought became a whisper beside your ear. All the while, the Living Shadow’s sly chuckles drifted on the breeze, never so near as to catch, never so far as to forget.
Halfway through the second valley, they found the first bridge. It spanned a chasm so wide and so deep that even the bravest marmot would hesitate. The wind screeched through the nettled pines, making the bridge—ropes old but oiled, slats graying from sun and age—waggle and snap like a loose tooth.
Elf sniffed the air. “Magic here. And not the fun rainbows-and-pies kind.”
Cyrus, mustering his courage, stepped on first, clinging tight to grease-dark ropes. Ant came next, feet moving rapidly, breath tight in his chest. Halfway across, the wind surged, and something shifted—the air flashed black, then silver, and suddenly the world tilted dizzyingly. The chasm below seemed to widen, its depths swirling with images: the Lantern flickering out, the proud faces of villagers turned to disappointment, the cold certainty of failing everyone.
Ant froze, knuckles white.
“I can’t. The bridge is—look!” His voice trembled as the chasm below began to echo his own fears: whispered accusations, mocking laughter, journeys lost in fog.
Cyrus saw Ant’s distress. His own hands shook, but he remembered his father’s words on stormy nights: ‘Courage isn’t loud; it’s the voice that steadies others even when you feel hollow.’
Gently, Cyrus knelt, gripping Ant’s hand. “You’re not alone. The bridge isn’t real, not all of it—it’s the Shadow, showing us what scares us most.”
Elf, voice low, fumbled in her pockets. “If it’s illusions it wants, let’s give it even bigger ones.” She yanked out a brass kaleidoscope and twinkling vials of festival glitter, whispering wild stories of heroic lantern-keepers and bridges turning into rainbow trains.
Cyrus closed his eyes and began to invent—a tale about a magical bridge that glowed whenever friends crossed together, lighting up with steps of promise, laughter, hope, and dawn. He wove their words into a story, imagining a bridge built from everything they’d just offered the gate. Ant, listening, felt his heartbeat slow, his feet finding surer purchase as the illusions below them faded.
One by one, the three pressed forward. Under their feet, the old rope bridge shimmered, slats brightening with golden light, each plank inscribed with a hopeful word. The storm above lessened, the wind slowing, and with every step, the chasm below dimmed, replaced by a shining path that reached, impossibly, toward sunrise.
At last, breathless but together, they reached the far cliff. The bridge stilled, returning to weathered wood. Behind them, mist curled and retreated, and the distant, bitter laugh of the Shadow faded into the gorges. The trio collapsed into heather and moss, hearts hammering, arms linked.
Ant, catching his breath, managed a shaky grin. “That was… absolutely terrifying. But kind of amazing.”
Elf winked, tossing glitter from her shoes. “That’s how you know it’s a proper quest.”
Cyrus gazed upward as the clouds shifted, sunlight streaming through. The Lantern above the village was a faint glimmer, a thread of hope on the horizon, but it felt closer now. Their first challenge was behind them—the mountain had not turned them back. Somewhere ahead, the path grew steeper and the riddles more dire, but as the morning sun burned away the last of the valley mist, Cyrus dared to believe.
They pressed onward, battered but emboldened, ready to face whatever other marvels—or terrors—the mountain’s ancient heart might yet unfold.