Rain lashed against the wooden roofs of Daggerfen. Spears of wind drove the smoke sideways from the sacred firepit, where embers hissed and spat against the storm. Jackie stood beneath the high eaves of the Hall of Stone, soaked through his wolfskin cloak, the Heartstone pulsing with warmth at his belt. It had not glowed since the skirmish.
Now, it throbbed again.
He scanned the muddy square below. Tense villagers gathered, some barefoot and others gripping rough spears or crooked bows. Faces were drawn, tattoos dulled by damp. The ancient muster drum thudded slow and deep like the heartbeat of the mountain itself.
"They look ready to run," muttered Kiran beside him, the boy clutching his bowstring with white-knuckled fingers. "Some never held a blade before."
Jackie exhaled. "Then we teach them. Quickly."
Marak stepped onto the stone dais behind them. The chieftain's voice carried like thunder through the rain. "Sons and daughters of the wild north! The Karus light warfires in the valley! They will march on us before the moon is full. So now we rise! We gather! We strike back!"
Cheers burst out—but ragged and uncertain. Many still remembered the burning of Briarthorne. The Karus had not left much behind.
Jackie leapt down the steps, boots splashing in the cold puddles. "Warriors! Hunters! Youths! You're all fighters now. We don't need strength of arm—we need strength of will. Who here has the blood of wolves in them?"
That stirred a few chests to rise. One man, tattooed with pine-ink runes, raised his spear. A girl no older than thirteen copied him.
"Good," Jackie said. "Then form lines. Bows to the left. Spears to the right. If you can walk and breathe, you can fight."
The lines were crooked at first.
Jackie moved among them, adjusting feet, straightening spines. "You draw with your whole body," he told the archers. "From the hip, not just the arms. Like you're pulling the breath from the forest itself."
Several fumbled until one old huntress, Mira, let fly. Her arrow struck the wood target dead center. Others cheered. She spat in the dirt.
"Teach them," Jackie said to her. She grunted but nodded.
At the spear line, Jackie took up a shield. "Shield blocks are rhythm. You hear the blow before you feel it. Now—strike me."
A broad-shouldered youth swung.
Jackie caught the blow and pivoted. "Again."
Another blow. Another parry.
They trained under the clouds. Thunder rolled. Jackie barked orders, his voice rasping raw. Memories of Rahu's war-songs echoed in him. His old master had said, War is a kind of music. Teach your tribe to sing.
By midday, their form had improved. The spear line held its shape. Bows no longer snapped from strain. Still, fear clung to them like fog.
Jackie climbed the stone hearth and raised a fist.
"Tonight, we perform the Dance of Eagles."
Murmurs rippled.
"That ritual's for solstice," someone said. "For peace, not war."
Jackie shook his head. "The dance isn't just celebration—it's blood memory. Our ancestors moved through fire and storm, and their rhythm still runs in us. We move like them, we fight like them."
Chief Marak nodded gravely. "Let it be so."
By twilight, the rain turned to mist.
Around the sacred firepit, the tribe gathered. Drumbeats started low and steady. Elder women lit bundles of burning sage and circled the lines of warriors, chanting.
Jackie stood at the head, bare-chested now, ritual ash painted across his brow. The Heartstone hung on a leather cord, its pulse slow and red.
He moved first.
A low step. A spin. Arms extended like wings.
The Eagle Dance was not about grace. It was primal, powerful—reminding each warrior that they descended from beasts that flew above fire and storm.
Soon others joined: boys who had never fought, mothers who once hunted wolves. The rhythm surged. The mist became steam from their breath. Feet stomped. Hands slapped leather drums. Cries rose with smoke.
Jackie felt the Wolfflame stir inside him. That old inner heat licked his veins.
Then the Heartstone flared.
For a moment, it shone like a star. Others gasped and stepped back.
A few elders dropped to their knees.
"He bears both paths," whispered Mira. "Wolf and Flame… The child of two fates."
Jackie stopped, breath ragged. The glow faded slowly.
But he saw it in their eyes now—faith. Not just fear.
Later that night, he sat at the edge of the village, staring down the dark slope toward the valley.
Footsteps approached. Kaela. She held a cloak of fox-fur, draped it over his shoulders.
"You'll freeze like that," she murmured. "Hero or not."
Jackie didn't answer. His mind still echoed with the old chant: He who dances flame and fang shall stand when dusk devours the sun.
Kaela sat beside him.
"You made them believe," she said. "That's harder than swinging a blade."
"I'm not sure I believe myself," Jackie admitted.
She looked at his hands. "You bled for us. You faced the Karus before any of us. Your doubt makes you dangerous, Jackie. It means you question when others obey."
He glanced at her, surprised.
Her gaze softened. "That's how leaders are made."
Dawn came colder than expected.
The sky hung low, bruised and gray. But the warriors rose early. They formed their lines before the second drum.
Jackie walked among them again, correcting stances, checking gear.
Kiran approached with a bundle of carved wooden totems. "The Elder Shamans finished these last night. They're for protection."
Each bore tribal runes—names of ancestors, spirits of wind or beast. Jackie took his and ran his thumb over the etching.
It was shaped like a wolf with a flame in its jaws.
"Custom work," Kiran smirked. "They think you're a bloody legend now."
Jackie laughed despite himself. "Tell them I'm just a boy with too much to prove."
He tied the totem to his belt beside the Heartstone. The two relics pulsed together. Briefly, he felt the power within him stir again.
Not just fire, he realized. This is something new.
That evening, word came from the outermost ridge.
A scout arrived breathless, mud on his face, his bow cracked.
"Karus banners," he gasped. "Dozens. Maybe more. They camp by the Singing Stones."
That was less than a day's march.
Jackie's blood went cold.
Chief Marak stood from the council circle. "We prepare tonight. At first light, we move."
There were mutters. Fear again.
Jackie raised his voice.
"No more hesitation. They'll crush us one village at a time if we let them. But if we meet them together, united, we can hold them."
"Why should we follow you?" growled a rough voice.
It was Bren, the butcher's son—older, thick with meat and bone, with a long scar across his neck. A known bully.
Jackie faced him. "Because I bled for the tribe when you were too drunk to stand. Because I listened when the flames spoke. And because if I fall tomorrow, at least I fall trying."
The fire flared behind him. His voice had risen without him meaning to.
Bren's eyes narrowed, but he stepped back.
Marak nodded slowly. "He's earned his place."
Kaela laid a hand on Jackie's shoulder. "They'll follow now."
That night, as the stars emerged, Jackie climbed alone to the cliff above the shrine.
He knelt, placing the wolf-flame totem before him.
Wind howled softly. Feathers tied to nearby trees danced in the gusts.
Jackie closed his eyes.
Ancestors, he thought. Guide my hands. Still my fear. Show me the way.
The Heartstone grew warm.
Then a voice—not spoken, but deep within:
When the twin moons part, and the ash-rain falls, look for the beast that walks as man. He is not what he seems.
Jackie's eyes snapped open. The wind had stilled.
Far down the trail, a single shadow moved through the trees.
A figure in furs… with no visible face.
And beside him, walking calmly, was a spirit-wolf with eyes like golden fire.
End of chapter 22