The dawn came slow and reverent, gilding the treetops with molten light as mist curled around the roots of the stone-ringed glade. Here, in this forgotten pocket of forest where the tribe's ancestors once danced with spirits, Jackie stood alone. His breath plumed in the cool air, each exhale tinged with a quiet purpose.
He was bare-chested, arms wrapped in leather bands etched with totem runes. His spear lay beside him, freshly wrapped in sinew and bone charms. The Heartstone pulsed faintly against his chest beneath a woven wolf-pelt mantle. The memory of last night's firestorm still clung to his skin.
Now, it was time to master the storm inside.
Jackie crouched beside a bundle of kindling stacked atop a ring of stones. He pressed his palm to his chest, fingers grazing the warmth of the Heartstone.
"Wolfflame," he whispered.
His bloodline surged. It began in the chest, a slow rising heat that licked up his spine and coiled at his shoulders. Jackie raised one hand and focused. The warmth bloomed in his palm.
A flicker. A spark.
Flame burst to life.
A perfect, silvery fire—a flame with a whispering howl. It leapt from his palm and ignited the kindling. Jackie exhaled. He didn't recoil this time. He felt it: the fire wasn't foreign. It was his.
He stood, spreading his arms. The fire coiled around him, trailing ribbons of light across his shoulders and wrists. He began to move.
The ritual was not one Rahu had taught, but one his body remembered. Each step flowed from his blood, each gesture a call to the wolf-spirit bound deep within him. Fire followed his movements like loyal wind.
He turned, stomped, slashed the air with open palms—and fire followed.
"You dance like an ember-chaser," said a voice from the trees.
Jackie spun.
Yara stepped from the shadows, her long braids damp with morning dew. Her eyes, bright as amber stones, followed the flames as they coiled and hissed around him.
"I thought no one knew of this place," Jackie said, slightly breathless.
"My mother brought me here as a girl," Yara said, stepping into the glade. She glanced at the ashes. "But I've never seen it wake like this. Not since the fire seasons."
Jackie let the fire trail down his arms and vanish into his fingertips. The power resisted him slightly, eager to burn again. But he held it firm. Controlled.
Yara reached into the pouch at her side and pulled out a small object wrapped in woven bark. She stepped closer and held it out.
"For you."
Jackie opened the wrapping. Inside was a charm, simple but deliberate—a carved bone pendant in the shape of a flame with a wolf howling through its center. Intricate tribal glyphs curled along its edge. The craftsmanship was hers, clearly. He stared at it, struck silent.
"Wolfflame," she said, voice low. "That's what you called it, right? A fire born from the wolf within. You'll need a totem to bind it. This is yours."
Jackie took it, heart surging.
"Thank you," he said. "It means more than you know."
Yara didn't smile. Her expression was unreadable. "It means I believe you can hold it together. The fire. The wolf. Yourself."
Jackie looped the charm around his neck, letting it rest beside the Heartstone. The two talismans pulsed together, and for the first time, he didn't feel split. He felt whole.
By midmorning, word had spread through the camp like summer lightning: Jackie had called fire with no flint, no tinder. Just breath and blood.
Whispers followed him as he returned to the village edge. Warriors paused their drills. Children peeked from hides. Even the elders, seated around the talking stone beneath the bone canopy, looked up.
Rahu stood among them, arms folded. His face was unreadable as always, but his eyes glinted when he saw the scorch marks trailing Jackie's arms.
"So," Rahu said as Jackie approached. "You lit the spirits' hearth again."
Jackie bowed his head. "And I didn't burn myself."
"Good," Rahu replied. "But fire isn't a weapon. It's a trial. If you forget that, it'll consume more than your enemies."
One of the younger warriors—Kaden, sharp-jawed and eagle-eyed—snorted from behind the elders. "What next, Jackie? Will you fly? Will you bleed gold like the Ancients?"
Jackie met his gaze, not with anger but with calm. "I only want to protect the tribe. If that makes me strange, I accept it."
Kaden's smirk twitched. He looked away.
Rahu nodded. "Well spoken. Then hear this. The elders have seen what you are becoming. They say the fire marks you. You have awakened a true blood-gift."
A hush fell.
Jackie's chest tightened. "Does that mean... I am ready?"
The oldest elder, Mother Isha, rose slowly. Her voice, though weathered, held command. "You are no longer a cub running through brambles. You have met the flame and walked away. When the moon next turns, you will undergo the Rite of Naming. Then you shall wear the tattoos of a full warrior."
Gasps rose from the gathered. Jackie stood frozen. The Rite of Naming was more than a ritual—it was the mark of tribehood. Identity. Legacy.
"I will not fail," he said, bowing deeply.
That night, the village burned no war-fires, no alarms. Peace, for once, blanketed the hills like a soft fur. But Jackie could not sleep.
He sat by the old carving-stone behind his tent, sketching symbols in charcoal. Glyphs. Flame. Wolves. Suns. Visions that had haunted him in dreams now found form on stone.
Yara joined him again, carrying two bowls of hotroot stew.
"You'll miss sunrise," she said, offering one.
"I can't sleep," Jackie admitted, setting the charcoal aside. "Every time I close my eyes, I see fire. But it's not just fire. It's... something older. Watching. Waiting."
Yara sat close, knees brushing his. "Maybe it's the Ancients. Maybe they're waking in you."
Jackie sipped the stew and looked up. "Would you be afraid? If they asked you to become something more?"
Yara considered. "Only if I had to do it alone."
Silence settled between them, warm as the stew.
Jackie stared into the embers of a nearby torch. They swirled. For a heartbeat, he saw a wolf's face there—eyes like twin suns, fur woven from fire.
He blinked.
Gone.
But in his chest, the Heartstone glowed.
That night, Jackie dreamed.
He stood in the ancestral grove. But the trees were ash-white, leaves shimmering like fireflies. Before him stood a massive wolf, fur like molten iron, breath steaming like a forge.
"You carry two names," the wolf said. Its voice echoed not in sound, but through bone.
"Who am I?" Jackie asked.
"You are of the Flame," it said, "and of the Fang. Balance them, or be devoured."
Then the forest cracked with thunder, and a shadow swept over the glade. A monstrous claw reached toward him—scaled, black, dripping venom. Jackie raised his spear, but it shattered.
He woke with a gasp.
Dawn light filtered through the hide of his tent. The dream clung to him like sweat.
From outside, the sound of horns.
Not alarm.
A summoning.
The Rite of Naming would begin.
End of Chapter 30