The light had faded.
The air still shimmered with leftover energy, like heatwaves after a firestorm. Sylas stood at the center of the dais, his breathing unsteady, his thoughts unraveling. The tattoo on his forearm hadn't stopped moving since it appeared. It shifted like smoke. No, like something alive beneath his skin. A pulse. A whisper. A breath.
The villagers were still there, silent but stirring. Elder Lira looked shaken, gripping her ceremonial staff tighter than before. The familiar confidence in her eyes had dulled with uncertainty. The same question hovered in every breath:
What was that?
Corvina took a step closer, but stopped herself. She stared at the swirling, inconstant mark on Sylas's skin. Her lips moved, barely audible. "I've seen something like this… once." Then she shook her head. "No. Never like this."
Before the murmurs could overtake the square, Elder Lira raised her voice. Her words, though calm, trembled faintly at the edges.
"The gods have spoken."
It was a phrase spoken at every awakening. A phrase meant to close the ceremony and settle the air.
But this time, it didn't settle anything.
"Let us not forget… Sylas has been marked. And that alone is sacred."
Her eyes scanned the crowd, daring them to challenge her. Some did, silently. Some backed away, uncertain. Others watched Sylas as if he'd been split open.
"By which god?" someone muttered. "We don't know that."
"She said the gods chose him," a woman whispered sharply.
"That's no god I've ever seen."
From the edge of the crowd, Deren's stance never changed. Rigid. Silent. Watchful.
Corvina looked at him. "Say something," she murmured, more to herself than to anyone.
But he didn't.
Instead, Elder Lira continued her speech with the grace of someone trying to stitch together a ceremony already unraveling.
"All marks are a gift. Some are blessings, some are burdens, but all are power. We do not dictate which god chooses whom. We honor the choice, whether we understand it or not."
Sylas glanced down at his arm.
The mark rippled.
It shifted into a wolf's tooth, then a raven's wing, then a spiral of chaotic ink that made no sense at all. For a second he thought he saw a long tail curl and a pointed snout, teeth bared in a grin.
But only he saw it.
And deep inside, a laugh echoed. Inside him. Waiting. Curious. Mischievous.
The ceremony was over.
And still, no one moved.
Then, as if snapping the world back into motion, Sevrik stepped forward. "Well," he said with a smirk, "I always figured you'd be the first to confuse the gods."
The villagers laughed but it was an uneasy sound.
Corvina walked to Sylas's side and rested a hand on his shoulder. "You okay?"
"No," he said honestly. "But I'm still standing."
Together, they descended the platform.
And still, people watched.
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The walk home felt longer than the walk there. The torches from the awakening site still flickered behind them, marking the trail they now left behind. The sky had deepened to indigo, the first stars pricking through.
No one in Sylas's family said a word for half the journey.
Only the wind filled the silence, brushing through the grasses like it, too, wasn't sure what had happened.
Finally, Maren broke it.
"You did well," she said softly.
Sylas gave a half-smile. "I scared everyone in the village."
"That doesn't mean you did anything wrong."
"I didn't say I did." His tone was tired, not bitter.
Beside him, Nara snorted. "Honestly, I think it was great. Way more dramatic than Eiran's mark."
Eiran raised a brow. "Mine glowed like wildfire."
Nara grinned. "Yeah, but his was weird. That's so much better."
Sylas chuckled faintly, but even that felt strange in his throat.
They reached the edge of the village, where the path curved toward their home. The forest grew quiet again, their house silhouetted against the silver moonlight. When they entered, the warmth of the hearth greeted them—but even that felt different now.
Inside, food had been laid out. Maren's attempt at celebration. There was roasted boar from yesterday's hunt, warm cider, and slices of honeyed bread.
No one sat right away.
Sylas remained standing, uncertain, until Maren ushered them all to the table.
Deren sat at the head, folding his arms as Sylas took the seat across from him.
It wasn't until halfway through the meal that anyone spoke again.
Sylas broke the silence.
"Go on. Someone say it."
Maren set down her mug. "Say what?"
"That I'm cursed. That this mark is a mistake. That I'm… wrong."
Nara blinked. "Wait, is that even an option?"
Eiran gave her a look. "He's not cursed, Nara."
"You don't know that."
"No one's cursed," Maren said firmly. "And no one's saying you're wrong, Sylas."
Sylas stared into his cup. "They are. Out there, they are."
Deren's deep voice cut through the quiet. "Then let them."
All eyes turned to him.
"You've been marked," he said. "That's fact. You don't control which god chose you but you do control what you do with it."
Sylas looked at him, surprised.
"But… you don't even know what it is," he said.
"I don't," Deren agreed. "But I know power when I see it. I know danger too."
"So which do you think this is?"
"I think," Deren said slowly, "that you need to find out."
It wasn't comfort. It wasn't approval. But it was something.
And Sylas took it.
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Later that night, long after his family had gone to bed, Sylas sat near the fire, watching it dim to embers. The coyote cub nestled beside him, resting its chin on his boot.
His sleeve was rolled up, the mark pulsing faintly in the glow.
Sylas whispered into the dark, "What are you?"
No answer came.
Only the flicker of his mark, a faint echo of distant laughter, curling like smoke in the corners of his mind.
It didn't mock him.
It waited.
Just like the god who gave it.
And Sylas fearful, confused, but burning with something new realized he was ready to find out.