The night before the rite, the village did not sleep easily. Fires burned late, smoke curling through the wooden lanes. Elders spoke in hushed tones, their faces lined with worry. Children peeked out from doorways, sensing the unease their parents carried.
Around the great fire, the youths gathered, laughter and boasts masking nerves. Dagan, as always, lifted his voice above the rest. "When my blood touches the stag, its light will cover me whole. The other tribes will see that the Staghearts are not weak."
The mention of the other tribes stirred unease. To the north, the Stoneclaw Tribe raised warriors as relentless as the wolves they worshipped. To the east, the Ashfang Tribe bore the serpent's fire, venomous and unyielding. To the south, the Duskthorn Tribe thrived in shadows, their crow totem cloaking them in whispers and omens. Each tribe boasted champions, warriors who carved their names into the Vale's memory.
The Staghearts had the Silver Stag, a spirit of growth and endurance. Yet to many outsiders, it seemed a gentle blessing compared to fire, fangs, or poison. Survival was not glory. Survival was prey's lot.
Near the flames, Kael sat apart, watching. The heat licked at his skin, but it did not ease the gnawing hunger inside him. Since the night in the Vale when the pulse had surged through his veins, his appetite had grown insatiable. Each bite of food dulled it for a time, but the emptiness returned stronger, as though his body demanded more than the tribe could provide.
He listened as elders whispered nearby. "If too few awaken, the Vale will laugh at us. They will call us frail again."
"Frail? The chief already wagered our strength by sending half the totem warriors north," another replied. "If the rite fails, we will be seen as prey not just by raiders, but by our own kin."
Kael tucked the words away. Every rumor, every half-truth, was another thread he might weave. Already he could see the outlines of tension between chief and elders. In time, such cracks could be split wide.
The fire popped, scattering sparks into the night sky. The stag totem stood tall against the flame, its antlers catching the light. The youths fell silent, their bravado draining in the totem's shadow. Tomorrow they would bleed. Tomorrow the stag would judge.
Kael closed his eyes briefly, steadying the rhythm of his breath. He expected nothing from the stag. Yet in the hollow hunger of his body and the strange strength swelling beneath his skin, he felt the promise of something else.
Something ancient and terrifying. Something the Vale was not prepared to see.