The new moon hung like a black stone above the tribal fires, and every torch guttered low in the windless dark.
Jackie stood before the Seeress's tent, the golden spear strapped across his back, a soft thrum in his chest where the Heartstone pulsed in rhythm with his blood. Night air, heavy with juniper smoke and damp pine, wrapped around him. The usual night-sounds of the forest—chirping beetles, owls hooting in the distance—had gone utterly silent.
It was the hour of omens.
Inside, a ring of elder stones formed the foundation of the council lodge. Carved with runes and bound with braided sinew, the hut was lit only by a central flame burning blue within a bowl of sacred oils. Around it, the clan's eldest and strongest sat cross-legged: tattooed warriors, cunning witches, weathered hunters with bead-wrapped braids and knives at their sides.
And in the center sat her.
Seeress Nima of the Bone-Eye, blind since birth, yet always watching.
Her face was chalk-white with ash, her milky eyes rolled upward. Her head tilted slightly as if listening to something none of the others could hear. Her voice—when it came—was not loud, but it cut like flint through the silence.
"Three children called by fire... one shall lead, one shall betray, one shall be consumed."
Jackie's skin prickled.
Her fingers traced the air, slow and precise, as if writing glyphs no one else could see. "When the Blood of the Wolf and the Flame unite, the Ancients shall stir. And should they walk again… the world shall not remain as it was."
A hush fell heavy in the tent.
Then all eyes turned to Jackie.
He shifted under the weight of their stares. Elder Mora gave him a nod, slow and grim. Beside her, Kaden watched, lips tight. Yara sat in the shadows beyond the circle, her gaze unreadable.
Jackie tried to speak, but his mouth was dry.
Blood of the Wolf... and the Flame?
The prophecy hung in his mind like a trap ready to spring.
And though his chest burned with the afterglow of recent triumph, something in him twisted—an unspoken truth clawing at the edge of understanding. He wanted to know. Needed to. But the truth felt just out of reach, like a word half-remembered in a dream.
The Seeress's head fell forward. The flame in the bowl sputtered, then died.
The council dismissed them with no answers—only riddles and whispers.
Jackie stepped out into the moonless night, wind curling through the dark trees. The festival cheer was long gone. The village slept uneasily.
But he couldn't.
Dawn broke gray and mist-veiled. Jackie rose with the first birdsong and made his way beyond the village, toward the elder's grove.
Rahu would be awake.
Sure enough, the old shaman sat beside a stone altar streaked with lichen and age. The grove was a sacred place—where the tribe spoke to its dead and shaped its future. Every tree bore marks of past rituals: bone charms, dried feathers, ochre sigils. The smell of sage and damp earth clung to the air.
Jackie approached quietly, unsure of how to ask the question burning in his chest.
But Rahu spoke first.
"You carry the flame now," he said, not looking up. "It burns hotter each day."
Jackie knelt. "The Seeress's prophecy—what does it mean? Blood of the Wolf and the Flame—that's me, isn't it?"
Rahu looked at him, eyes like smoldering coals.
"Perhaps. But prophecy isn't wind. It doesn't move in a straight line."
He gestured toward a pool of still water at the grove's heart. "If you wish a clearer glimpse, you must look inward."
They sat together at the water's edge, legs crossed. The surface of the pool was like glass, reflecting twisted roots above and pale sky behind.
"Breathe," Rahu said. "Slow. Feel the fire within you, but do not let it rise. Let it listen."
Jackie closed his eyes.
He drew air into his lungs, slow and deep. The Heartstone's pulse steadied with him. Inside his body, the Wolfflame stirred—a restless heat coiled in his core, eager to leap. But he held it back, guiding it not into strength or strike, but into stillness.
Time fell away.
The surface of the pool shimmered.
When Jackie opened his eyes, the water had changed.
Ripples danced outward, forming shapes. A silhouette emerged in the depths: a crowned warrior, face obscured by shadow, wielding a staff of flame that roared like a living beast. The figure knelt beside a great wolf, its fur black as night, its eyes golden. And around them surged a tide of fire and stars.
The vision twisted. Jackie saw glimpses—tribes burning, a totem shattered, red lightning tearing through storm-wracked skies.
And at the center of it all… himself.
The fire flared—and the vision vanished.
Jackie gasped and fell backward. The Heartstone against his chest seared hot, then cooled. When he looked up, Rahu was watching closely.
"You saw it," the shaman said.
Jackie nodded slowly. "The figure… was that me?"
"Not just you," Rahu said. "The crown, the flame, the wolf—they are parts of you. And perhaps… others."
He turned away, his face shadowed. "Prophecies are paths with many doors. Some lead to glory. Others to ruin."
"But the Flame," Jackie said. "It's the spear. The one I won."
Rahu didn't answer. Instead, he stood and walked toward a nearby altar, drawing a blade of flint from his belt. He cut his palm and let the blood drip onto the stone.
"When the Ancients last stirred," he said, voice low, "the sky cracked, and whole bloodlines were erased in a single night. The Flame you carry is more than a weapon. It is a key. And the wolf… is not just a symbol."
Jackie stared.
Rahu turned. "You must walk carefully now. The tribes watch you. Some with hope. Others… with fear."
Jackie's mind churned. The vision burned in his memory—the crowned warrior, the shattered land.
He felt the pull of destiny like a hook in his spine.
By midday, the mist had burned away, and Jackie returned to the village with the image still fresh in his mind. His body felt drained, but a new current stirred within him. The Heartstone glowed faintly beneath his shirt, as if responding to a new truth taking shape.
As he passed through the village, Kaden watched him from the edge of the training yard. The smirk was gone, replaced by something harder.
He knows, Jackie thought. Or at least suspects.
Yara appeared near the drying racks, her hands busy with herbs. She glanced up, and their eyes met. She gave a hesitant smile—then her gaze flicked toward the woods behind him. "You weren't in the village this morning."
"I needed answers," Jackie said, voice low.
She stepped closer, concern shadowing her features. "Did you find them?"
"Some. Enough to know I don't know anything yet."
Yara studied him, then placed a small charm—a wolf carved from ashwood—into his hand. "My father carved it when I was born. For protection."
He looked at her, startled.
"I think you're going to need it."
That night, Jackie sat alone again, high on the ridge, golden spear beside him. The stars blinked in endless silence overhead.
And once more, the dream returned.
He stood on the same snowy peak. But this time, the crowned warrior in the fire turned toward him.
Its face was his.
But the eyes were wrong—burning too bright, consumed with rage and fire. The staff of flame twisted into a spear of jagged bone, and the stars above wept ash.
Then a voice whispered, colder than the wind.
Not all who burn are meant to lead.
Jackie jolted awake, sweat on his brow, hand clutching the carved wolf charm.
Something was coming.
And not even prophecy could tell if he'd rise… or fall.
End of chapter 19