Sol stood in the shadow of the totem, his back pressed against the rough, carved wood. The square was filling up rapidly, transforming into a sea of painted skin, furs, and stone weapons. The air vibrated with a low, guttural chanting that seed to rise from the earth itself, syncing with the rhythmic thud-thud-thud of the great ceremonial drums.
He scanned the crowd, his Ash Gray senses filtering through the noise.
It was a spectacle of primitive power. The participants... about thirty of the tribe’s youth... were a mix of nervous energy and aggressive posturing. So were pacing, muttering prayers to their ancestors. Others, the sons and daughters of hunters, were laughing loudly, sharpening their spear tips with theatrical scrapes to hide their fear.
Sol kept his head down, but his eyes were sharp. Unlike others, who haven’t gone out alone yet, he had already sneaked out a few tis, so there was less of nervousness and more of anticipation.
He scanned the crowd and instantly spotted Vurok near the front. surrounded by his usual pack of lackeys. He was clad in thick leather armor, holding a heavy iron-wood club. He was laughing at sothing one of his friends said, but his eyes were darting around the crowd, searching, until they locked onto Sol.
Vurok’s eyes widened in genuine shock, obviously stunned by his appearance, then narrowed into a slit of pure malice. He said sothing to his lackeys, and they all turned to look at Sol, sneering. Vurok drew a thumb across his throat.
Sol didn’t react. He just looked at Vurok’s body, imagining the exact spot where the pain would be worse.
His hands checked the small pouch at his waist... making sure the clay vial of venom was secure and padded with moss so it wouldn’t break during a run.
His gaze drifted to the edge of the square, where the spectators had gathered. The entire village had turned out to watch the send-off.
He saw them imdiately.
Lyra stood near the front, her hands clasped tightly together, her face pale. Beside her, Arelia stood tall and stoic, though her fingers were twisting the hem of her tunic. Liora was bouncing on her toes, waving frantically the mont she caught Sol’s eye. Veyra stood with her arms crossed, looking angry at the world, but her eyes were fixed on Sol with an intensity that betrayed her worry.
Sol offered them a small, reassuring nod.
Then, his gaze shifted slightly to the left.
Nia was there. She stood apart from the other wives, wrapped in a dark shawl. She wasn’t looking at the ceremony; she was looking at him. Her eyes were dark, burning with a fanatical, possessive devotion. She touched her stomach subtly as their eyes t, a silent ssage of belonging.
And further back, leaning against a hut with lazy grace, was Evara. She winked at him, licking her lips... a promise of rewards to co if he survived.
A surge of warmth filling his chest. I have people to return to.
Suddenly, the drums stopped. The silence that followed was heavy, pressing down on the square, like a heavy stone.
"Silence!"
A voice like cracking thunder rolled over the clearing. It was Rovan, the most trusted guard of chief and the one who ca to get the soup last ti.
"Make way!" another guard bellowed.
The crowd parted instantly, lowering their heads in respect.
A procession of figures erged, radiating an aura of absolute power that made the air feel thin.
First ca the Hunters. Among them walked Torak... Vurok’s brother. He was a mountain of a man, his skin a roadmap of white scars, wearing the skull of a saber-cat as a pauldron, and his weapon wasn’t a spear—it was a massive great-axe made of polished black stone.
He walked with the heavy, arrogant stride of a man who had faced blood and killed apex predators. He didn’t even glance at the youth, as if they were beneath his notice.
Then ca the group of Elders, so withered and bent, while others still standing tall with various scares on their faces. But all draped in the furs of exotic beasts, a sign of being an elder, their eyes sharp with ancient cunning.
Then, Chief Tharun.
He was a lion in human form. Broad, graying, and imnse, he wore a cloak made from the hide of a Golden-Mane Beast. He carried no weapon, for his presence alone was a bludgeon. He walked to the center of the platform, his gaze sweeping over the tribe like a physical touch.
But it was the figure walking beside him that made Sol’s breath hitch.
He was a bit confused at first. He didn’t recognize her instantly, which was strange given his assimilated mories. Yet, it was clear from her posture... spine fluid like a viper, head held high... and the terrified deference shown by the Elders and Hunters that she wasn’t a nobody. Even Chief Tharun, a man who is said to have wrestled behemoths, slowed his stride to match hers.
Then, suddenly a na drifted up from the depths of his mind.
The Shaman.
He already knew that the tribe had a shaman, the spiritual leader of the tribe, but the Shaman was a recluse, rarely seen. So much that he could count the number of tis the shaman had appeared in public, but... this ti she also ca.
A ripple of shock went through the square. The murmurs started low and rose quickly to a buzz of confused anxiety.
"Zula?" a woman whispered near Sol, clutching her necklace. "She never cos to the Annual Rite. She only cos for the War Blessing."
"Why is she here?" another muttered, eyes wide. "Is it an on?"
"Think about it," an elder replied, his voice grim. "The attack last year... that nearly wiped out the tribe settlent. We lost more than half a generation. Look at the numbers today... these youths are the only hope we have left. Maybe she ca to give her blessing."
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