On the first night of the new year, when the snow lay soft and blue beneath the stars, the makangoes gathered on the frozen hill above the valley. The world was quiet there, wrapped in winter’s hush, but at the heart of the clearing a great bonfire roared to life, a pillar of warmth and color against the deep velvet sky. Its flames leapt high, golden at the center and crimson at the edges, and every spark that drifted upward was watched with reverence.

They believed each spark was a soul returning, another makango ready to be reborn into the world.

The ground around the fire was ringed with carved stone totems, squat guardians half-buried in the snow. Their rounded faces and solemn eyes faced inward toward the flames, as if listening to the songs and laughter carried on the night air. Resting at the bases of some of the stones were wooden masks, freshly carved in honor of ancestors whose names were spoken in stories tonight. The masks were simple, the ears still just little rounded nubs; the young carvers had found ears to be trickier than expected, and the parents had only laughed fondly and said that their ancestors would understand.

Kappa breathed steam into the night as he held his bowl of fish soup close to his chin, the rich, savory aroma warming more than just his paws. Beside him, Nu sipped eagerly, cheeks puffed with delight between each swallow. They sat shoulder to shoulder, leaning close to the fire, their reflections flickering in the surface of the broth.

Not far away, Delta leaned over Sigma’s shoulder, admiring the mask cradled in Sigma’s lap. The wood still bore faint tool marks, and the little carved eyes gleamed with varnish.

“You did beautifully,” Delta murmured.

Sigma ducked his head shyly, though pride glowed behind his eyes. “The ears will be better next year,” he said, half a promise, half a dream.

“They’re perfect for this year,” Delta replied, and the two shared a quiet smile.

Phi and Rho sat nearest the fire, wrapped in thick cloaks. Their faces were washed in the light of the flames, their expressions soft with wonder as they watched embers drift skyward. Rho nudged a tiny mask into place atop one of the totems, a playful gesture that somehow still felt sacred, and Phi laughed under her breath before bowing gently toward the stone.

Behind the circle, the parents spoke in low voices and passed a shared jug of plum wine between them. Their laughter carried across the snow, warm and deep, like distant drums. Now and then one of them would pause, gaze into the fire, and whisper a name long remembered.

The night filled with stories, of journeys taken, storms survived, and ancestors whose wisdom had guided them all. Last year’s memories glowed in every voice like embers in the coals. The future, they knew, would bring new challenges, perhaps even grander adventures than any they had yet known.

But for this moment, they sat together beneath the watchful stars: carving, feasting, remembering, and welcoming every spark that rose into the night.