The scent of scorched sage and roasted boar drifted through the high mountain air.
Drums boomed like thunder across the ridgeline, echoing off pine-streaked cliffs. Smoke spiraled from a dozen ceremonial fires, each lit in honor of the Ancestor Spirits. Around them, the Warrior Festival pulsed with life—chanting, clashing steel, painted bodies dancing in spirals of dust and song.
Jackie stood at the edge of the archery grounds, flexing his fingers and staring down the range.
Ten paces ahead stood the first ring, twenty the second, thirty the final mark. Each target was shaped like a beast-spirit—falcon, bear, elk—painted in vivid ochre and black. Elders watched from their high-seats, wrapped in fur and adorned in bone totems.
Jackie's bow creaked as he drew the string back.
He breathed in. Held.
Let the fire guide you, he told himself.
The Heartstone, tucked beneath his leather chest-wrap, gave a subtle throb of warmth. It was almost like a second heartbeat now, steady and deep, an ember just beneath his skin. He expected the pulse to guide his aim.
He loosed.
The arrow whistled—and fell short.
It clattered into the dust halfway between the second and third target.
A few murmurs rippled through the crowd.
Yara, watching from the sidelines with her spear across her back, winced sympathetically.
Jackie scowled and notched another arrow.
He breathed again. Slower. Tried to feel that warmth, the flow of power the Heartstone had awakened in him.
The second arrow flew.
It grazed the edge of the second target, then spun wide, bouncing harmlessly off the carved falcon's wing.
Jackie lowered his bow.
Behind him, a familiar voice chuckled—a sound like gravel and old wounds.
"You fight stones better than targets," said Rokas, the broad-shouldered champion from the Bearfang clan. His braided beard was laced with iron beads, and his tattooed arms bulged like tree trunks.
Jackie gritted his teeth. "I'll keep practicing."
Rokas shrugged. "Practice won't make you taller."
Jackie ignored him. Pride tasted like ash in his mouth, but he swallowed it.
He looked again at the final target. Just beyond his reach. Just like the gold medallion that hung from the Elder's banner—awarded only to the festival's top warrior.
Not yet, Jackie thought. But soon.
The sun sank lower, casting fire-colored light across the village fields. Jackie walked alone beyond the central ring, past the bark drums and the fire pits where stories were told. Children laughed and chased painted hounds. Warriors boasted over ale and meat.
But Jackie walked on, toward the Totem Grove.
There, beneath the twisted cedar known as the Mother's Root, he trained. Alone.
He fired arrow after arrow, his sleeves stripped to reveal the evolving Wolfflame tattoos coiling down his arms. His fingers blistered. His eyes burned. The Heartstone's warmth pulsed with every breath, steady and low like a forge-fire.
He began to match it—his breath with its rhythm, his posture with its pull.
Then he felt it: a whisper of heat coiling up his spine. Not burning, not blinding—but centering.
He loosed another arrow.
Thwack.
The bolt hit the center of a knotted tree trunk, splitting a previous arrow cleanly in half.
Jackie smiled. Progress.
The next day dawned with frost on the grass and mist curling around the village palisade. The spear-throw was held on the eastern bluff, where wind swept hard against the cliff and gusts could twist a shot wide.
Contestants lined up one by one.
Jackie stepped to the edge, clutching a long obsidian-tipped spear carved with flame symbols. Yara gave him a silent nod of encouragement. Rokas cracked his knuckles and grinned like a bear smelling blood.
Jackie closed his eyes.
The Heartstone stirred beneath his chest wrap.
He imagined it expanding—not as a blaze, but as balance. A low warmth. A grounded core.
He inhaled. The mountain wind tugged at his braid.
Then he threw.
The spear sang through the air.
It cracked the center ring of the farthest target—a perfect split.
A beat of silence—then roaring applause.
One of the judges, a hawk-eyed huntmistress from Clan Ivorn, raised her hand. "Mark it!"
Jackie bowed his head slightly, grinning.
Behind him, Rokas spat into the dirt.
But the third contest—wrestling—was different.
No weapon. No distance. No margin for clever aim.
Just strength. Endurance. Grit.
The ring was packed with villagers. Warriors sat in circles, chanting names and drumming fists against the earth. Ash was scattered across the ring to honor those who had died in combat. The victor would take the Hunter's Mantle, a cloak of white bear fur blessed by the totem-priests.
Jackie stepped in, chest bare, tattoos burning beneath the sun.
Across from him loomed Rokas. Taller. Thicker. A bear-blooded brawler with earthblood lineage—his strength flowed from deep ancestral veins.
They circled.
Rokas lunged.
Jackie dodged—barely—ducking under a massive swing, but a backhand caught his shoulder and sent him sprawling into the dust. Pain flared through his ribs.
He rolled. Stood.
Rokas grinned, eyes gleaming. "You're quick. I'll give you that."
Jackie spat blood. "You're slow."
Then they clashed again.
Flesh slammed flesh. Jackie's limbs burned with each push, each twist. He used every technique Rahu had taught him—leverage, footwork, timing—but Rokas was relentless, his strength grinding Jackie down like a glacier.
Still, Jackie didn't yield.
Twice he reversed grips. Once he nearly had Rokas in a shoulder lock—but the bearblood roared and slammed Jackie into the ground.
Dust filled Jackie's mouth.
His vision blurred.
But even then, the Heartstone stirred.
Just a flicker. Just a pulse.
He surged upward, slamming his head into Rokas' chin.
The crowd gasped.
Rokas stumbled back, bleeding from his lip.
Jackie lunged.
He got one arm around the champion's throat—almost, almost—
Then Rokas pivoted, slammed Jackie down once more.
Hard.
The referee barked. "Match! Bearfang wins!"
Gasps. Then cheers.
Jackie lay in the dust, chest heaving, the sky spinning above.
Then Yara's hand was there, pulling him up.
"You almost had him," she said, proud and gentle.
Jackie smiled through bloody teeth. "Next year, I will."
Rokas approached, panting. He held out a hand.
"Strong spirit," he said. "Not many stand twice. You did."
Jackie took his hand.
They clasped forearms. Warriors.
Respect, not just rivalry.
That night, the final fires burned bright across the valley.
Mead flowed. Meat sizzled. The elders chanted old songs while painted faces danced around flame pits. Totems were lifted high—wolf, bear, eagle, serpent.
The warriors who placed first in each trial stood before the crowd, cloaked in furs and honored with carved medallions.
Jackie stood behind them, not among them—but proud.
He had not won the trophy.
But he had won something else—the eyes of the tribe were different now.
Not curious. Not doubtful.
But watchful. Respectful.
He sat beside Yara on the hillside, both of them wrapped in the same fur cloak.
"The Heartstone's helping you," she said, voice quiet over the wind. "But it's not doing it for you."
Jackie nodded. "Good."
He looked up at the stars.
Then something strange.
A howl echoed from the northern cliffs.
Not a wolf.
Something deeper.
The drums faltered for a moment.
Elders looked to the sky.
Yara leaned forward. "That wasn't from here."
Jackie's blood chilled.
And then—his chest pulsed.
The Heartstone glowed faintly through his wrap, as if it too had heard the sound—and recognized it.
End of Chapter 16