The horizon burned red as the first rays of dawn sliced through the mountain veil. Mist clung to the shoulders of the returning scouts like ancestral spirits unwilling to let go. Jackie walked at the head of the formation, the Heartstone pulsing faintly against his chest with each step—warm, alive, aware.
Behind him, the others limped or leaned on one another. Arlen's arm was bound in roughwolf hide; Teya bore a fresh scar over her brow. Yet none of them looked defeated. They had returned from the valley alive, bearing news that would shake the roots of the tribe.
The Karus were on the march.
As Jackie crested the final hill, the sprawling shape of Thornscar Village came into view. Smoke from the communal hearth curled upward. Prayer feathers fluttered from totem poles. The scent of pine, old ash, and boiling bonebroth reached them like a welcome hand.
The lookouts spotted them and howled once. A moment later, drums sounded—low, rhythmic thuds that stirred the heart. Not a war-call. A return-hymn.
"Brace yourself," muttered Teya, managing a crooked smile. "You're about to be the tribe's golden wolf."
Jackie exhaled slowly. The prophecy still echoed in his mind: Blood of the Wolf, Flame of the Ancients...
He wasn't ready to be anyone's symbol. But he'd fight for them. That, at least, was something he knew how to do.
They were met in the high clearing beneath the Eldertree, where generations of warriors had gathered to share triumphs and bury the fallen. Elder Mahra waited at the center, her raven tattoos stark against her silvered skin, flanked by the Circle of Eight and a host of curious tribesfolk. Jackie stepped forward, bowing respectfully.
"You have returned," Mahra said. "And with grave tidings, I see it in your faces."
"Yes, Elder." Jackie's voice carried, steady despite the dust in his throat. "The Karus light signal fires on the northern ridges. Their scouts have crossed into hunting lands. They mean to challenge us."
Murmurs rippled like wind in tall grass. Warriors exchanged sharp looks. Mothers clutched their children's hands.
Mahra nodded once. "Your warning comes in time. And more—so does proof of your strength. We heard of the clash in the canyon."
Arlen stepped forward. "Jackie led us. He fought the Karus champion—one of their Bloodborn. Didn't flinch. Saved my life."
Jackie flushed as heads turned toward him. A few older warriors grunted in quiet approval. Even Kaden, arms crossed near the rear, gave the faintest nod.
Mahra turned to a young acolyte. "Prepare the fire."
The crowd stirred. This was no ordinary welcome—it was a Rite of Ember.
The ritual circle was drawn with char-stone, each point representing an ancestral totem. The watchers formed a ring of silence. Above them, the first true light of morning ignited the eastern clouds.
At the center, a stone altar bore sacred offerings: a cracked horn from a thunder-elk, an obsidian fang, a sprig of moonroot. Jackie stood before it, the Heartstone cupped in his palms. The relic vibrated with barely-contained heat, threads of Wolfflame flickering in its core.
Mahra approached. "You carry two bloods within you, child of the north. Wolf and Flame. This fire is yours to awaken. If your ancestors deem you worthy... it shall burn."
Jackie closed his eyes and drew inward.
He felt his breath deepen. Felt the wellspring of his bloodline stir in his chest. The wolf within—the beast who saw in the dark, who hungered for challenge, who howled at the edges of silence. And beneath that, the flame. Not wild. Not reckless. But purposeful. Carried from the old shrines. Lit by the first dawn.
He opened his eyes.
The Heartstone flared.
He placed it on the altar, and as his fingers left it, a pillar of fire rose upward in a clean, brilliant spiral. Not orange, not yellow—red, deep and pure as heartbeat. It danced in silence for a long breath, then flickered outward, casting everyone in crimson glow.
Gasps escaped. Awe etched every face. A few warriors fell to one knee.
"Blood of the Wolf," someone whispered. "Flame of the Ancients... it's true."
After the ceremony, Jackie slipped away from the crowd and climbed the old watchtower alone.
Up here, the world stretched vast and open. The sun crowned the peaks in molten gold. Prayer feathers, tied to wooden beams, rustled in the wind. Each feather bore a wish, a memory, a plea. Jackie reached out and touched one—blue-dyed, inked with the name of a cousin who had died during last winter's hunt.
Why me? he wondered. Why now?
He had power, yes. The Heartstone acknowledged him. The flame obeyed. His instincts had sharpened, his reflexes heightened in battle. He felt the stirrings of something deeper—a new threshold of strength not yet understood.
But prophecy? Destiny?
He was still the boy who had once been overlooked, half-forgotten, mocked by his peers. Could he truly be the one the Ancients had whispered about?
The door behind him creaked. Jackie turned to find Yara ascending the steps, her wind-blown hair bound in braids, a fresh smear of paint across one cheek. She carried two wooden cups.
"Elder Mahra said you'd be up here."
He accepted the drink. "Thank you."
They stood together, watching the sky bloom.
"You scared me," Yara said softly. "When you didn't come back last night."
Jackie looked into her eyes—green, sharp, always searching. "I was scared too. But I couldn't let the Karus get close. Not again."
She sipped, then smiled faintly. "You've changed."
"How so?"
"You don't walk like you're waiting for permission anymore."
Jackie blinked, unsure what to say.
"You walk like someone becoming," she added.
He chuckled, feeling heat rise in his cheeks.
A silence settled between them, not awkward—alive.
Then Yara looked eastward. "They'll come soon, won't they? The Karus."
Jackie nodded. "Yes. We have days, maybe less."
"Then you'll need allies. Those who believe in more than your strength. Who believe in you."
She placed a hand on his arm—light, grounding—and then descended the steps, leaving Jackie with wind, feathers, and the weight of her words.
That night, under a blanket of stars, the council fire roared high. Warriors sharpened blades and recited old chants. Mothers wove talismans into their sons' cloaks. The air buzzed with both fear and fervor.
Jackie sat apart, near the roots of the Eldertree. His fingers traced the scar across his arm—left by the Karus champion's club—and then drifted to the Heartstone at his belt.
He unslung it and placed it on his knees, gazing into its molten core. Visions flickered in the depths: a burning battlefield, a shadowed figure on a bone-throne, wolves running beneath twin moons.
And then—unexpected—a dreamlike image of a great spirit-wolf, fur woven of starlight, eyes glowing like twin suns. It padded forward through a haze of smoke, paused before Jackie, and spoke with no voice:
"You walk both paths. But fire burns clean only when guided. Do not lose the wolf."
The vision shattered.
Jackie blinked and found himself back beneath the tree, sweat on his brow.
"Do not lose the wolf," he whispered.
Something stirred beyond the tree line.
A howl.
Not close—but clear. Not a beast's cry. A message.
A scout burst into the fire circle, panting.
"They come! The Karus move fast. A vanguard marches through the northern cleft. Four days, maybe three before they reach the river."
Warriors rose at once. The council erupted in shouts.
Jackie stood slowly. Calm.
Mahra turned to him, as did the others.
This time, no one questioned why.
This time, they waited for him to speak.
Jackie lifted his gaze to the stars.
"The Ancients stir. So must we. We prepare tonight. Tomorrow, we ride."
And somewhere deep in the mountains, unseen by man, the great spirit-wolf lifted its head... and howled back.
End of chapter 12