The night of the awakening came heavy with expectation. The air was still, broken only by the crackle of the great fire at the village center. The carved stag totem towered above the gathered crowd, its antlers stretching high into the night sky as though to pierce the stars themselves. Elders had prepared the Awakening Stones, each chiseled from the Vale's sacred rock. Every surface was etched with antlers and flowing lines that mirrored the Silver Stag totem. They were not mere stones but vessels, tempered with herbs and blood rites to carry the spirit of the tribe.
One by one, the children stepped forward. Each cut their palm and pressed blood onto the carved surface. At once, the carvings flared silver and pain jolted through their bodies. Some cried out. Others clenched their teeth until their jaws trembled. The villagers watched closely, for pain was the measure of the bond. The greater the agony endured, the deeper the spirit's answer.
The first shadows to appear were faint. Antlers barely formed behind one boy before fading, leaving him sweating and pale. A girl collapsed to her knees, clutching her chest, as her stone gave off only a thin wisp of light. Whispers passed quickly.
"Too shallow."
"No stag will run with her."
"He will defend, though never lead."
The children stepped back, some in shame, others forcing pride onto their faces.
As the line thinned, anticipation grew. The strongest were placed near the end, where the firelight shone fiercest. Dagan stood tall with a smirk, certain that his turn would shake the Vale. Kael, standing apart, listened more than he spoke, weighing every reaction, every whispered judgment.
Then came the name few expected to matter. Lyra, daughter of Haron the healer, stepped into the firelight. Quiet, slender, and often overlooked, she carried none of Dagan's arrogance, only calm resolve. Some villagers tilted their heads, curious why her place had been saved for so late in the order.
She cut her palm and pressed it to the stone. For a moment the fire dimmed. Then silver light surged upward. Behind her rose a stag vast and pure, its antlers stretching beyond the totem itself. Unlike the flickering shadows of others, this one shone steady, its form radiant and unbroken.
A cry went up. "The Silver Stag itself!"
Villagers knelt. Children stared wide-eyed. Elders murmured of omens and destiny. Some whispered that a spirit so pure had not been seen for generations. Haron's eyes glistened with pride as he watched his daughter stand bathed in silver, though he did not speak. The moment belonged to her.
Kael studied the crowd instead. He saw awe, tears, disbelief. Then he looked at the chief. His smile seemed carved from stone, his eyes dark beneath the firelight. It was not pride but unease. For every cheer that raised Lyra higher, the chief's own authority dimmed.
The stag faded slowly, leaving behind a lingering glow on the carvings of her stone. The villagers erupted in cheers, already naming Lyra as the pride of the Staghearts.
Kael did not join them. His thoughts were steady, cool as the night air. The tribe believed the Silver Stag had blessed them, yet he saw the shadow that trailed such light. The chief would not stand idle while Haron's line rose.
And as Kael's turn drew closer, he knew that his path would demand a choice. To reveal or to hide. To claim his place in the firelight, or to walk in the silence beyond it.