The council lodge was packed beyond breath. Smoke rose thick from the fire pit, curling through the roof-hole like the soul of Two-Reeds himself. Men and women crowded the walls, children clung to rafters, and even the dogs slunk in, eyes glowing from the corners. The air stank of grief, sweat, and damp cedar.
Sky-Torn sat by the hearth, staff planted firmly in the dirt, its shadow taller than himself. He felt the heat of fifty stares pressing against his skin, sharper than any spear. Wounded Bear stood opposite him, shoulders broad as the doorframe, his voice low but sharp enough to slice:
"You said your path would guard us. Instead, a boy lies in the earth. How many more before your visions satisfy their hunger?"
Murmurs rippled like wind over tall grass. Some nodded. Some glared. Others simply watched, waiting to see whether Sky-Torn rose or fell.
The System's glow shimmered in his skull, tallying the moment.
Council Hostility: 53%.
Fear: +18. Reverence: –7.
Opportunity Detected: Public Prophecy Manipulation.
He could end this with silence. He could let Wounded Bear's grief gnaw at him, let the crowd tilt toward safety. But silence was a kind of death, and the System never let him forget that.
Sky-Torn rose, staff clattering once against the hearthstones. "Two-Reeds did not die for me," he said, his voice rising with the fire's crackle. "He died because fate demanded balance. Blood for blood. If he had not fallen, another would have. Even I cannot change the law of exchange."
A mother hissed, "Then what use are you?"
Sky-Torn looked at her, his heart aching though his face did not show it. "Use enough to see further than the next dawn. Use enough to know the pale-faces are raising walls thicker than a man's body. Use enough to know muskets will spit fire that no shield can turn. Do you think beads and blankets will save you? Or will you bury children one by one until there are none left to sing?"
The crowd stirred. Some nodded, teeth bared. Others looked away, as though the truth itself burned their eyes.
Wounded Bear slammed his fist into the dirt. "You speak like the ancestors sit in your throat. Yet I hear nothing but your hunger for power."
Sky-Torn's jaw tightened. The ancestors' voices had grown faint in his ears ever since the System's whisper first coiled there. But tonight, he would make the people believe.
He raised both hands. "If you doubt me, then let the fire judge."
Gasps flared. To call on the fire was no small act. The flame was the tribe's oldest witness, the smoke said to carry truth straight into the stars.
He scattered herbs into the blaze, their scent sharp and bitter. Sparks leapt high, shapes twisting in the smoke. Sky-Torn reached for the Destiny Twist skill the System had given him, and pressed his will upon the omen. He had seen such rites since childhood—deer leaping, rivers swelling, storm-birds circling. But this time, he bent it.
The smoke curled, hesitated, then shaped itself into the proud head of a stag, antlers vast, eyes burning. The people gasped as one. A stag meant strength, renewal, protection from enemies. A stag meant the ancestors stood with the shaman.
The System purred:
Prophecy Manipulation Successful.
+120 Villain Points. Reputation Shift: +Authority, –Trust.
Sky-Torn let the image hold a moment longer, then opened his arms wide. "See? The spirits crown our struggle. They give us strength to strike again. They do not bless Wounded Bear's cowardice."
The crowd roared. Half in awe, half in fury. Broken Antler, the eldest, narrowed her eyes, saying nothing. She had seen the hesitation in the smoke, the unnatural bend before the stag appeared. But most had not.
Wounded Bear's voice cut through the noise. "Then let the spirits judge us both. Not with tricks, not with smoke, but with our bodies. I challenge you, Shaman. Ritual combat, before all. Let the ancestors show who they walk beside."
The lodge fell silent. The words hung like frost. Ritual combat meant blood spilled not for land or food but for truth. It was not a duel of pride; it was a duel of souls.
The System flared.
New Quest Branch: Duel of Oaths.
Reward: +150 Villain Points, exclusive skill upgrade.
Failure: Death or exile.*
Sky-Torn met Wounded Bear's gaze. There was no malice in it, only sorrow hardened into stone. He could refuse and be called coward. He could accept and risk death. Or he could twist again, deeper, risk fate itself snapping back.
"I accept," Sky-Torn said, voice steady. "But not today. Tomorrow, when the sun touches the treetops. Let the people prepare. Let the spirits gather."
The lodge erupted. Some shouted Sky-Torn's name, some Wounded Bear's. The fire spat sparks like teeth.
⸻
That night, Sky-Torn walked alone to the burial grove where Two-Reeds lay newly covered. His mother had left offerings of cornmeal and beads, already crusted with frost. He knelt, pressing a hand to the earth.
"I did not choose you," he whispered. "But your blood is mine now."
The System stirred.
Optional Ritual: Blood Price.
Sacrifice grief for power. +200 Villain Points. Permanent skill unlock.
Warning: severe reputation loss if discovered.*
Sky-Torn's hand trembled. He could draw power from the boy's death, enough to crush Wounded Bear tomorrow. But the thought of feeding on grief curdled his stomach. He withdrew his hand, leaving the soil untouched.
For now.
⸻
The next dawn, the council gathered again. The people were restless, whispering of omens. Some said Two-Reeds' spirit had been seen at the river's edge. Others claimed the stag in the smoke had lowered its head at them in blessing.
Broken Antler raised her staff. "Enough whispers. The truth is plain. The shaman will fight Wounded Bear. If he wins, his visions rule. If he falls, then we turn to other paths."
Slow Mink, eyes always too quick, stepped forward. "Or we could turn to trade. The pale-faces offer peace. Why bleed our sons when blankets are warmer than graves?"
Hisses and curses answered him. A stone flew from the crowd, striking his shoulder. He flinched but did not retreat. His defiance was dangerous, but his cowardice more so.
Sky-Torn saw the opening. He whispered under his breath, calling on the new corruption skill.
Taboo-Leverage activated.
He murmured into the crowd's ear like smoke into lungs. "Slow Mink speaks of peace while Two-Reeds lies in the earth. Is that not shame? To praise beads at a child's grave?"
The taboo of dishonoring the dead tightened like a snare. Gasps spread. Someone spat at Slow Mink's feet. His face drained of color. He stammered but the words failed.
The System chimed.
+70 Villain Points: Taboo exploited.
Minor Influence boost: Slow Mink loses support (–15 Authority).
Sky-Torn stood tall. "The ancestors do not trade. They do not bow. They fight. And tomorrow, so shall I."
The council dissolved in noise, voices clashing like spears. Some cried for war, some for caution, others for exile. But one truth hung heavy in the smoke: tomorrow, the lodge would see blood.
⸻
That night, Sky-Torn dreamed again.
He stood in the lodge, but it was already burning. Flames ate the poles, and Wounded Bear stood opposite him, body wreathed in smoke. His eyes were cinders. He raised his spear, but when he struck, it was not Sky-Torn he aimed at—it was the people behind him, the children, the mothers.
The System whispered:
Tomorrow, fate tilts. Bend it, or break.
Sky-Torn woke with the taste of ash in his mouth, knowing that the trial to come would crown him or damn him forever.