The fire ran hot, throwing sparks into a sky glazed with smoke. No one left the circle. Mothers held children on their hips, elders leaned on sticks, and the youths waited in a tight line while the Awakening Stones were wiped clean and warmed again.
Lyra stood beside Haron, palms bandaged, the glow of her stone still faint on the carvings. Voices rolled across the yard in waves.
"Did you see how high the antlers rose?"
"She never shouted, not once."
"The Silver Stag has returned to us."
The chief moved through the crowd with a measured smile. He stopped before Haron and lifted his voice so all could hear.
"Your daughter is blessed. May her light steady the Vale."
Haron bowed his head. "The spirit chose. We have only kept our hands steady."
The chief's smile held. "Hands can guide a tribe. So can voices. Careful use of both is wise."
Haron looked up, calm as river stone. "Careful use is my craft."
The chant leader struck the drum. The next boy stepped forward, cut his palm, and pressed blood to the carved stone. Silver lines flared. A narrow stag shadow rose behind him, thin as a sapling. He clenched his jaw, then sagged as the light faded. His mother cried with relief and pride.
Two more youths came and went. One girl screamed and bit her lip until it bled, then stood shaking as short antlers formed and dissolved. Another boy collapsed to his knees. His shadow barely showed. The elders helped him rise and led him to the side for water.
Kael watched without blinking. He studied the rhythm of pain and light, the timing of breath, the way the runes caught blood in their grooves. He counted the stones left on the cloth. He counted the faces that followed each flicker of light. Power did not sit in one place tonight. It moved from mouth to mouth.
Near the water jars a knot of villagers gathered around Haron. They were men with scars on their forearms, women who had lost food stores in the raid, a few elders with clear eyes. Haron spoke to them in a quiet tone.
"The rite tests more than the brave," he said. "It tests us all. If the young bleed, we will have hands ready, salves prepared, herbs stacked. Bring me your stores tomorrow morning, I will set them in order and return what is yours with measure for measure."
A woman bowed. "We will bring them, Haron."
He shook his head. "Bring them for your children, not for me."
Kael listened from a step away. This was not a speech for glory. It was a net, cast wide with kindness, strong enough to pull weight when the river turned fast. A healer gathered followers by healing. The chief gathered them by trials, meat, and fear.
The chief watched the knot form and thin. His eyes did not move from Haron until the drum sounded again. He called to an elder at his side.
"From tomorrow, set two guards at the store hut. Herbs go out with a tally."
The elder nodded.
Another boy stepped forward and pressed his palm to the stone. Light crawled the carvings. His stag rose thicker than most, antlers to his brow, hooves as clear as a stamp in wet clay. The crowd cheered. He stumbled back, grinning through tears.
Dagan stood three places from the front. A woman in a dark shawl hovered near the chief and rested a hand on Dagan's shoulder for a breath, then let it fall. The boy rolled his shoulders and smiled without humor.
Lyra moved closer to Kael, her voice low. "You watched more than anyone," she said. "Does it look the same to you each time?"
"Nothing looks the same twice," Kael said. "Not even the stones."
She studied him for a heartbeat. "You do not seem afraid."
"Fear wastes breath," he said. "I need breath more than fear."
Haron called softly. Lyra returned to his side. She did not bask in the praise that met her. She steadied the bandage and poured water for the next youth instead.
The chief stepped into the ring again, voice smooth. "The rite continues. Our spirit is patient, our tribe is strong."
He looked at Haron across the fire. "Strength needs a path. The longhouse will shape the training that follows."
Haron folded his arms. "Training breaks bodies as often as it builds them. Send them to me between drills. I will keep them standing."
"Do not mistake mending for leading," the chief said.
"I do not," Haron said. "I keep people alive so they can choose who leads them."
A hush spread for a breath. The drum masked it, then carried the focus forward.
Only five stones remained on the cloth. The master of rites lifted one with both hands as if it weighed more than rock. The carvings caught the firelight and held it.
"Next," the elder called.
A girl stepped in, face set, and gave her blood to the grooves. Pain bared her teeth. A compact stag rose clean and solid. Pride lifted her chin when it faded.
Four stones left.
Dagan exhaled slowly. The crowd turned toward him like grass toward wind. He tasted their attention and let it settle on his skin. The chief's gaze had sharpened. The woman in the shawl did not look away.
Kael did not blink. He counted breath. He counted noise. He counted the moment between the elder's call and Dagan's first step, the small pause that tells a player when a board is about to change.
The drum sounded once, deep and final. The elder raised his hand.
"Dagan," he said. "Come forward."