In the center of the village stood the staircase. It rose from the earth like a spine of pale stone, climbing straight into the sky until it vanished into the clouds. No one knew who had built it, or why. Twice each year, when the air grew sharp and restless, the villagers gathered at its base to celebrate Ascension Day. From a wooden barrel, the Elder drew a single name. To be chosen was considered the highest honor—an offering to the heavens themselves. The crowd always cheered, though their joy carried an undercurrent of unease. No one ever saw those who climbed return. This year, the name called was his.