The sky bled scarlet over the Bloodpine Ridge as the first hunting horn sounded.
Jackie's eyes snapped open.
He lay on the outskirts of the sleeping ring, just beyond the warmth of the fading communal fire. His sleeping mat was thin, his breath visible in the morning chill, and the scent of last night's elk stew still clung to his cloak. Around him, the warriors of the Emberfang Tribe stirred—broad men inked with red-spiral tattoos and bloodline marks glowing faintly beneath their skin. The scent of charred ash and sacred smoke filled the air as the tribe prepared for the Fire of the Ancestors hunt.
He wasn't among them.
Not yet.
Jackie sat up slowly, heart pounding, as the men gathered near the center to receive blessings. Elder Kovu, the fire-keeper, dipped a carved antler into the bowl of ritual ash and pressed it to each man's brow. Jackie watched, jaw tight.
The Fire of the Ancestors hunt was sacred. Only those with recognized bloodline gifts were permitted to join. Dragonblood, Wolfflame, even those with the rare Ghosthide or Frostvein traits—they had all undergone the Trial of Embers. Jackie had not.
He was fifteen. The age of choosing.
And yet still they called him Ashborn—a child without a spark.
Juran, his half-brother, caught his eye from across the fire and smirked. Juran's bloodline mark, a jagged flame at his collarbone, pulsed in time with his breathing. Wolfflame. One of the strongest. He'd awakened at twelve.
"You can keep the fire warm for us, runt," Juran said, laughing with the others. "Someone has to chase the embers."
Jackie didn't answer. He couldn't. His throat was too tight.
I won't always be outside the circle.
By the time the hunting party vanished into the forest, their chants echoing like war drums, Jackie was already slipping into the grove beyond the village.
There, nestled in a half-cleared hollow marked by stone and root, stood the practice post he'd built from stripped birch and twine. A straw effigy had been fastened to it with care, its chest painted with a red circle where a vital strike should land.
He reached for his wooden spear, scarred with notches from failed throws.
He planted his feet.
Breathed in.
And attacked.
The strike was clumsy. The spear bounced off the figure's shoulder. He cursed, stepped back, and tried again. Again. Again. Each miss echoed with frustration.
Jackie wiped sweat from his brow. Too high. Too slow. Too weak.
The earth was damp underfoot. Leaves rustled overhead. Somewhere deeper in the trees, a fox barked.
He repositioned. Tried again.
This time, he struck the target square in the chest. The shaft embedded deep. He stepped back, panting, a flicker of warmth pulsing in his heels—like stepping onto sun-warmed stone.
He froze.
It was gone as fast as it came. But it had been real.
"What was that?"
"You're starting to feel it, aren't you?"
He turned. Yara stood just outside the glade, arms folded across her chest, a crooked smile playing on her lips. Her eyes were the color of wet bark, and her forearms bore twin rows of training scars.
"I… think so," Jackie admitted.
Yara stepped into the light. "I've seen you sneak out here for weeks. You're improving. But that warmth? That was more than muscle."
He nodded slowly. "It felt like… something waking up."
"Then strike again," she said, stepping behind him. "I'll guide your stance. Let's see if the spark is more than a flicker."
Her hands were steady as she corrected his hips, adjusted his grip. Together, they moved. Each throw cleaner than the last. The target began to tear at the center.
Then, on the final strike, the moment came.
The spear left Jackie's hands with a snap of air, glowing faint red as it struck true. The figure collapsed. The ground beneath his feet vibrated.
He stumbled back, heart hammering. The glow faded—but not entirely. His veins shimmered faintly with gold-red light, just for a breath.
Yara's eyes widened.
"You saw that?" he whispered.
"I did," she said. "It wasn't your imagination."
From the edge of the grove, a gnarled hand pushed back a veil of vines.
Hidden in the shadows, Shaman Rahu had been watching.
His eyes narrowed. "The fire remembers its own," he murmured.
Later that day, the hunters returned, whooping with pride and bearing their kill—a blackhorn stag with crimson antlers. Blood dripped across the stone path leading to the totem pole, where the village would soon gather to give thanks.
Juran led the procession, triumphant. His chest was marked with fresh ash. He tossed the stag's heart onto the pyre and turned toward the crowd.
"The Flame walked with us today," he said, voice booming. "Even the Ghostfangs would have fled from our blaze."
The warriors roared approval.
But Jackie, standing at the edge of the crowd, barely heard them.
His mind was still in the grove.
That warmth hadn't been imagination. His body remembered the pulse. A power—not yet fully born, but waking. Stirring.
He touched his palm.
No mark. Yet.
Not yet.
Elder Kovu's voice rang out. "Only the blooded may claim the hunt's glory! To earn your place, you must face the Trial of Embers!"
Juran cast a sideways glance at Jackie, sneering.
"Don't worry, brother," he said, just loud enough. "When the fire burns you down, I'll carry your ashes."
Jackie met his gaze without flinching.
I'll show you who burns.
That night, as the feast roared on and flames danced high above the stag's bones, Jackie sat alone beside the darkened path leading to the shrine of ancestors.
He had taken his spear, now polished and reinforced with bone tips, and carved a single rune into the shaft—a symbol of the fire he felt inside. A hope, not yet proven.
Behind him, soft footsteps.
"I saw Rahu watching you," Yara whispered, crouching beside him. "He doesn't show interest in just anyone."
"Then maybe he saw what I felt," Jackie murmured. "Even if the rest of them don't."
They sat in silence, the stars wheeling overhead.
Yara finally spoke, voice low. "The elders won't let you take the Trial without proof of bloodline. But maybe there's another way."
Jackie turned to her.
"There's an old test," she said. "Banned since before our fathers were born. It's dangerous. But if you survive it, none can deny your right."
"What test?" he asked.
Her reply was a whisper:
"The Ember Maw."
POV: Elder Kovu, Shrine of the Heartstone
The old man stood before the pulsing crystal heart buried beneath the village's altar.
The Heartstone's glow had shifted. Brighter. Warmer. As if reacting to something.
A shadow stirred beside him.
Rahu stepped into the sacred ring, staff tapping against stone.
"You felt it too," the shaman said.
Kovu nodded. "A spark, long buried."
Rahu's expression darkened. "He will challenge the old ways. Just as prophecy warned."
Kovu exhaled. "Then let us hope the flame that wakes in him does not consume us all."
End of Chapter 1