In the hushed embrace of the twilight, where the edge of reality blurs with dreams, the first step is never taken. Shadows are the home of phantoms unseen, their whispers call the wandering ones into the circle of luminescence.
The ritual begins as the midnight sun, a mere whisper upon the horizon. Its glow, an ember lost among the stars, beckons. Participants clutch lanterns filled with fading mist, silhouettes against a backdrop of glow and endless sky.
Each lantern holds a guiding light, a beacon from realms forgotten. As they stand shoulder to shoulder, the phantoms weave around them, their forms barely perceptible, guiding hands beckoning to test the resolve of the heart.
The air thickens with the scent of burnt sage, a thin veil of smoke curling upward, connecting the grounded to the ethereal. A drumbeat, deep and steady, echoes across the expanse, synchronizing hearts and breaths with its ancient cadence.