The summons came on the wings of smoke.
Messengers ran through the valleys, painted with ash, carrying bundles of sage and pine needles as proof of the council's call. Each tribe was ordered to send its voice to the old ground of Many Fires—the place where oaths had once been sworn and broken in equal measure.
Sky-Torn stood at the edge of his village when the herald arrived. The people were mending canoes, shaping arrowheads, carrying water. Their hands did not pause when they saw the painted runner, but their eyes followed with suspicion. To them, the council was no longer a gathering of kin but a pit where wolves gnawed each other.
The runner bowed stiffly, thrusting the sage bundle into Sky-Torn's hands. "The chiefs call you. The time has come to decide."
Decide what? Sky-Torn already knew. Whether to stand together against the colonizers' encroaching settlements, or to scatter like leaves in the wind, each tribe saving its own hide. The System stirred within him, threads of unseen force tugging like fishing lines beneath his skin. A new glyph burned into existence at the corner of his vision:
Quest: Sow Discord in the Council.Villain Points: Variable (Reward scales with betrayal, manipulation, and sabotage).
Sky-Torn's lips curved in the faintest shadow of a smile.
The ground of Many Fires was not a meadow nor a clearing but a scar. Long ago, lightning had split a grove of trees, burning them into blackened stumps. Ever since, the tribes had returned here each season, rekindling flames from the ash as proof that unity could rise even from ruin. Now the air stank of pitch and old embers, and the trunks stood like charred sentinels, ringed with newly lit ceremonial fires.
Delegations had already gathered by the time Sky-Torn's people arrived. From the hills came the Elk Clan, proud in their tall headdresses, feathers flashing like spears of sunlight. From the marshes came the Turtle Clan, cloaked in painted shells and carrying drums that echoed like distant thunder. From far plains strode the Bear Clan, massive in stature, their warriors draped in furs though the season was warm.
Each fire was tended by keepers chanting to the spirits. Around them, chiefs and warriors debated in low voices. Children of different clans watched each other with suspicion, playing games that mimicked battles. Sky-Torn saw it all and tasted the bitterness in the air.
He did not walk at the head of his people. He walked apart, as always, cloaked in blackened feathers, staff crowned with bone charms. When the others made the sign of greeting, pressing palm to chest, Sky-Torn only tilted his chin, acknowledging no one. The System flared in his eyes, overlaying thin strands of light across the crowd. Threads connected chief to warrior, warrior to rival, rival to ally. Some threads pulsed with tension; others sagged loose, waiting to be pulled taut.
System Notification:Destiny Map – Partial. Entities marked with [Weakness].
Above the Elk Clan chief: [Prideful – Can be goaded into rashness].Above the Turtle Clan diplomat: [Idealist – Believes words can tame swords].Above the Bear Clan youth: [Hungry for Glory – Desires to be sung of].
Sky-Torn blinked, and the threads dissolved, leaving only the ordinary squabbling of men and women. He felt the hunger of the System, urging him to pluck at those strands, to twist them into snares. Villain Points glimmered just out of reach, like beads of dew on spider silk.
The opening ritual began at dusk. Each clan's keeper cast herbs into the central fire. Smoke curled skyward, forming shapes the elders strained to read. It was said the ancestors would guide them, showing whether to war or to peace.
When his turn came, Sky-Torn stepped forward. The muttering stilled. Some chiefs shifted uncomfortably, for his reputation was already a shadow in their stories. He ignored them. With deliberate slowness, he cast not sage nor pine into the flame but a bundle bound with crow feathers and blackened roots—the herbs of his secret craft.
The smoke leapt. The fire hissed.
For a heartbeat the flames flared green, curling into a shape unmistakable: a single great tree rising while smaller ones lay toppled at its roots. His tribe's emblem.
Gasps spread. Whispers raced like sparks. Some murmured that the spirits had chosen Sky-Torn's people to lead. Others muttered darker things: trickery, poison, forbidden rites.
Sky-Torn lowered his hand and let silence grow heavy. Inside, the System whispered:
Villain Points Earned: +40.Subquest Progress – Discord (10%).
He turned away from the fire, hiding the satisfaction that burned brighter than any flame.
Night descended. Fires ringed the clearing, their smoke veiling the stars. Chiefs and envoys gathered in circles, their voices rising in debate.
The Elk Clan chief thundered that war must be declared immediately, that the colonizers' forts should be burned before more could rise. The Turtle Clan diplomat pleaded for talks, claiming there was still a path to coexistence. The Bear Clan youth clamored for raids, eager for glory and plunder.
Sky-Torn said nothing. He sat cross-legged near his tribe's fire, staff resting across his knees, watching. To the others he seemed aloof, disdainful. In truth, he was listening with predatory focus.
Every boast, every plea, every swelling of pride—he caught them in memory. The Villain System drew faint marks across their bodies as they spoke, labeling weaknesses. He did not need to speak aloud. He leaned to his followers, whispering, "The Bear youth mocks the Turtle's fear." His people repeated it as their own thought, and within moments the insult was flung across the fire. Voices rose louder.
Sky-Torn smiled behind his hand.
When the council adjourned for the night, the air was already thick with mistrust. The clans returned to their lodges, each muttering about the others' arrogance. Sky-Torn stepped outside the circle of firelight, gazing up at the stars.
Once, he had prayed to those stars as a boy, seeking guidance. Now they felt like pale embers compared to the System's blazing script before his eyes. He whispered under his breath, a prayer not to the ancestors but to the strange force that had claimed him.
"Guide me further. Show me the paths to break them."
The System answered with silence, then with a faint pulse of light: threads stretching outward from the council ground, threads leading into blood, betrayal, and ruin.
Sky-Torn felt the first taste of triumph. Unity was already cracking, and he had only pulled one thread.
The real weaving would begin tomorrow.