The last rays of sunlight clung to the rooftops as Sylas stepped out from the trees, the worn leather of his boots crunching softly against the path. His family's home stood at the village's edge, a quiet threshold between the wild and the known.
Tonight, he crossed another threshold.
The awakening site lay at the village's heart, and the walk from the outskirts had never felt so long. The trail wound between thatched huts and quiet gardens, through lantern-lit alleys that shimmered with woven banners and trailing vines. Shadows stretched tall beneath the torches that lined the dirt road, and the scent of sage and roasted maize drifted on the breeze.
Sylas ran his thumb over the woven scarf Nara had given him, his hands trembling slightly.
"Walking like you're heading to your funeral," a voice teased from the dark.
Sylas turned to find Corvina leaning lazily against a wooden post, her braid draped over one shoulder, her Raven-marked sleeve half-hidden in the lantern's glow.
"You're late," she added, stepping beside him.
"I'm on time," Sylas muttered, forcing a faint smile. "Just… not rushing to be judged by gods."
Corvina smirked. "You'll be fine. Unless you fall flat on your face. In which case, I will laugh."
"Of course you will."
Another figure emerged from a side path, tall and broad-shouldered, moving with quiet certainty. Sevrik. His Wolf tattoo, a dark, sweeping arc from shoulder to forearm, shimmered faintly in the torchlight already glowing faintly in anticipation.
"Sylas," Sevrik said with a nod. "You ready?"
Sylas hesitated. "I don't know."
"That's better than lying," Corvina said, matching Sevrik's stride as the three fell into step.
They walked in easy silence for a while, their footsteps soft against the hardened clay path. Ahead, voices echoed faintly. Dozens of villagers had already gathered near the ceremonial site.
"Whatever happens," Sevrik said, his tone low, "it won't change who you are. Just... adds to it."
Sylas glanced at him. "Is that what Wolf told you?"
"No," Sevrik replied, a glint in his eye. "That was just me."
The village square came into view, decorated in a captivating tapestry woven for ceremony and reverence. Long ribbons of cloth, each bearing the intricate symbols of the gods, crisscrossed above the villagers. Villagers sat in wide, orderly circles around the Awakening Platform, a raised stone dais etched with ancient runes that seemed to beckon one to delve into their meanings.
At its heart lay a large pentagram, inlaid with polished silver that caught the morning light in flashes of shifting color. Around it spread a maze of ritual items: carved bone totems, feathers whispering of flight and transcendence, crystals shimmering with latent power, chalices filled with sacred water, and bowls of flame that danced as if stirred by divine breath. The scene formed a crucible of belief and tradition, where time blurred and the eternal brushed against the present. A place where the sacred and the mortal met, inviting all who entered to step beyond the bounds of the ordinary.
The air felt charged, thick with sacred tension.
Corvina touched Sylas's arm. "This is your step now."
And with that, they parted ways. Sevrik vanishing into the crowd of onlookers, Corvina taking her place among the Raven-marked near the eastern torches.
Sylas approached the platform alone.
Standing at its edge was Elder Lira, wrapped in layered robes of twilight purple, the mark of the Sky Father a radiant spiral that shimmered on her exposed palm. Her voice rang out with quiet power as she addressed the gathered crowd.
"Tonight, the veil between man and god thins. Tonight, the gods watch. They listen. And they choose." Her eyes swept the assembly. "Each of us carries a voice. And when that voice calls true… the gods answer."
She turned toward Sylas. "Sylas of the Broken Plain. Step forward."
A hush fell across the square as he climbed the stone steps. The runes beneath his boots seemed to hum as he moved, the air thick with unseen power.
Elder Lira extended her hand. "Begin."
Sylas took a breath and stepped into the center of the pentagram.
The ceremonial items surrounding him began to glow dimly at first, with rising intensity. Each point of the star lit in turn, corresponding to a god: a bear claw charm began to pulse with earthy red light. A raven's feather shimmered black-blue. The carved antlers of the Stag god shone pale green. A sky-colored crystal cracked with lightning from within.
The crowd stirred. Murmurs of awe swept through the square.
The marked among them began to glow tattoos igniting with divine resonance. Sevrik's Wolf mark flared silver. Corvina's Raven feather shimmered with light. Even Elder Lira's spiral flickered like a storm contained in flesh.
And then… Sylas felt it.
Like standing in the eye of a storm. Power encircled him, pressing down on his shoulders, yet lifting his soul. The spiritual embodiments of the gods took form. Luminous silhouettes surrounded the platform, hovering just beyond the veil of reality.
Bear stood massive and unshakable.
Raven flitted above on obsidian wings.
Wolf prowled in silence.
Sky Father glowed with celestial brilliance.
Others shimmered at the edge—Stag, Deer, even foreign gods from the Navajo pantheon: Black God with his fire eyes, a monster slayer with a spear of bone.
They all watched.
Sylas trembled as their collective gaze turned to him.
And then…
A ripple.
A new presence entered the circle.
The light faltered. The wind changed. The stars blinked out for a breathless second.
A form emerged at the edge of the pentagram not Bear, nor Wolf, nor any god the current villagers could name.
It was shifting, wild, not bound to a shape. Its energy felt old older than tradition, sly and coiled like smoke on the wind. A pair of glowing eyes blinked open within the shape mischievous, intelligent, unfathomably deep.
Sylas gasped as the figure stepped closer. The gods around it withdrew slightly, watching.
The spirit lifted its muzzle. Then, with a voice like wind on broken stone, it spoke without words a whisper inside Sylas's chest:
"You are not theirs to claim."
"You are your own, and with me, you will rise beyond them all."
Pain bloomed across Sylas's arm as something burned into his skin.
A surge of white-hot light lanced down Sylas's arm, and he gasped eyes wide, spine arched in silent shock. Lines of smoky silver and ember-red etched themselves into his skin, curling and snapping like ink spilled in water, coalescing into a strange shape. Not geometric like the Bear's claw. Not elegant like Raven's feather.
It twisted.
Alive. Moving. Watching.
At first glance, it looked like nothing just a swirl of curves and jagged points, vaguely organic, almost tribal. But Sylas knew.
His breath caught as he felt it watching him back. Not from the mark but from beyond. From outside the gods gathered around him. A presence coiled in laughter just out of sight.
Somehow, he knew it was there. Not present like the Bear or Wolf or Raven had been. Not recognized.
Uninvited.
But there.
And it had chosen him.
The light in the pentagram sputtered violently, flames licking upward before vanishing into smoke. The ceremonial items fell back into stillness as the surrounding glow flickered out, one by one.
The square fell into dead silence.
Sylas stood alone in the center of the dais, breathing heavily. The strange, shifting mark pulsed faintly on his forearm, unmistakably divine, yet wholly unfamiliar.
"What was that…?" someone whispered near the back.
Elder Lira stepped forward, her brow furrowed deeply. Her voice, usually composed, carried the barest tremor. "That is… not a symbol I know."
The murmurs began like a rising tide:
"Is it… Stag?"
"No, it's too wild…"
"Sky Father?"
"The shape it changed, didn't it?"
"It looked like it had… teeth—"
Deren remained silent in the crowd, his face unreadable, but his fists were clenched tight.
Nara's voice broke through like a dagger wrapped in velvet.
"Well, of course, he'd get something weird. It's Sylas."
That earned a ripple of uneasy laughter, half forced, half genuine.
Corvina, standing near the torchline, didn't speak. But her eyes were locked on Sylas. Wide. Searching. Not afraid… but deeply unsettled.
The mark still glowed faintly on Sylas's arm, shifting in the firelight, almost as if it were smirking.
He didn't speak.
He didn't have to.
Somewhere deep inside, where fear met wonder and dread bled into clarity, Sylas understood:
He had been marked.
Not by a god of strength or wisdom. Not by a guardian of balance or nature.
But by something old. Something forgotten. Something… forbidden.
And only he knew its name.