The golden spear shimmered in Jackie's grip as he stepped over the threshold of the festival grounds, dusted in the last amber light of dusk. Fires dotted the hills like watchful eyes, each flame crowned by dancing sparks and trailing smoke that twisted into the painted evening sky. Somewhere high above, a hawk cried once, then vanished into a band of cloud streaked violet and gold.
He had returned.
All around him, the village pulsed with celebration. Horns blared. Warriors pounded drums. Smoke from roasting meats thickened the air, laced with herbs and pine. Women twirled in fringed cloaks, faces painted with ochre spirals. Children scampered barefoot, shouting his name in voices high with awe.
"Jackie of the Flame!"
"Wolf-born!"
He strode through the jubilant chaos with the spear held upright—six feet of sun-tempered ash, its tip forged from the festival's sacred gold and etched with runes only elders could read. Its weight settled perfectly in his hand, like it belonged there.
For the first time, Jackie didn't flinch beneath the gazes. He met each eye with quiet pride.
When he passed the Karus fire-ring, even the hardened warriors of the stone clan gave him stiff nods. Gorram—bandaged and bareheaded—stood beside his kin, arms crossed. He gave a sharp grunt, something between respect and unfinished rivalry.
Jackie returned it with a tilt of his chin.
The crowd parted as he reached the central hearth where the high elders stood. Painted in sacred charcoal, ringed by flickering totems of ironwood and bone, they waited with solemn pride. Elder Mora of the Blackfang, tallest and sharpest-eyed, lifted a hand. Silence rippled out like a falling stone.
"We gather as the fire gathers," she intoned, "to mark a turning of blood and fate."
She stepped forward and placed her hands on Jackie's shoulders, fingers cold with ceremonial ash. "Jackie of no clan, you have earned more than victory. You have burned through doubt and risen through storm. You are no longer a stray wolf. By the rites of steel and sweat, we name you Champion of the Gathering."
Drums rolled. The people shouted his name again—louder this time, unified. Jackie's throat tightened.
His mind spun back to the shrine trial, to Rahu's grave warning: "Pain is proof. Burn until you shine."
Now, he stood—burned, yes, but unbroken. Shining in the dusk.
Someone pressed a cup into his hand.
Kaden.
For once, his sneer was gone. "You looked like a starving squirrel dodging Gorram's axe," he muttered, half-laughing. "But damned if you didn't earn it."
Jackie chuckled, still catching his breath. "Careful. I might start to think you like me."
Kaden smirked, bumping shoulders with him before disappearing into the crowd.
Then—her voice.
"You've changed."
Jackie turned. Yara stood nearby, dark hair braided in Eresh feathers, soft lines painted across her cheeks in charcoal and clay. She looked up at him with curious warmth.
"You burned brighter than the fire itself," she added. "Your eyes were… different."
He swallowed. "Wolfflame," he said simply, unsure how to explain the power that surged behind his ribs.
She smiled. "The flame suits you."
Before he could reply, the elders called him forward again. He knelt by the fire as they painted his brow with the black sigil of recognition—a clawed crescent mark only given to blooded warriors of the frontier. His breath slowed, his heart steady. He was no longer just the outsider boy from broken lineages.
He was Jackie of the Flame.
He stood, and the fire seemed to rise with him.
Later, the celebrations dulled into mellow song. The feast fires burned low, meat turned to bone, and the young fell asleep curled in their furs. Only the stars remained sharp above the canopy of smoke and pine.
Jackie sat alone beside a quieter fire on the ridge's edge, the golden spear resting across his knees.
Far below, the camp glowed like a scattered constellation of its own. He could see the shadowed banners of every tribe waving in the breeze—the Karus fangs, the Eresh thorns, the Blackfang flame. A dance of unity… or perhaps a fragile peace.
He touched the Heartstone beneath his tunic. Warm.
Its steady beat echoed through his chest like the pacing of some great sleeping beast—his bloodline awakened, still stirring.
His body ached in a thousand places: bruises bloomed down his side, his hands were raw, his right shoulder throbbed from where the axe had grazed him. But none of it dulled the quiet fire within.
His thoughts drifted to the shrine. To the duel. To Rahu's final words before vanishing in the flame: "A true leader rises from each challenge."
Was he a leader now?
Jackie wasn't sure. But he felt… ready.
A soft wind whispered through the trees. The moon climbed higher, casting a silver trail along the ground. A few sparks leapt from the fire, dancing toward the stars. He closed his eyes.
And then he saw it.
In dream—or vision—he stood on a snow-covered peak, the world dark but for a halo of flame that pulsed around him. Ahead, a figure emerged from the mists. Not a man, but a wolf tall as a horse, with fur like liquid shadow and eyes of molten gold.
The wolf stepped forward. It spoke without words.
Not the end. Only the gate.
Jackie stepped closer, heart racing. The wolf lowered its head and touched its snout to his chest.
A searing heat bloomed there. The Heartstone blazed to life—bright, white-hot—and the sky above them cracked open. From the breach poured fire and ruin, thunder and wings.
Jackie gasped and opened his eyes.
He was back by the fire.
But the stone beneath his shirt still burned—glowing faintly in rhythm with his heartbeat.
The Ancients were awakening.
Something was coming and at holding.
And Jackie had just stepped onto the path that would either lead him to glory… or consume him in flame but good toxic Mendel to the entire reformed of its tribe and remarkable glad.
End of chapter 18