Chapter 6: The Festival of the Twin Moons
A time of rare abundance came to the Stone Wolf tribe. A migrating herd of Thunderhoof, massive, six-legged beasts with hides like granite, had passed within a day's march of their territory. The hunters, led by Borak and Kael, had returned from a week-long expedition not just with meat, but with a bounty that bordered on the mythical. The tribe's storage pits were full, the drying racks sagged under strips of rich meat, and the air was thick with the scent of roasting fat and celebration.
This surplus meant one thing: the Festival of the Twin Moons.
It was the one time in the harsh turn of the year when the tribe's survival was not the immediate, grinding focus. It was a time for stories, for music beaten on stretched hides and hollow bones, for the sharp, fermented liquor made from the juice of the rare Sun-Drop fruit, and for the acknowledgment of deeds.
Ashen, now seven winters old, felt the change in the camp's energy. The usual grim efficiency was softened by a current of genuine, unburdened joy. He helped where he could, his arms now strong enough to haul heavier portions of meat, his knowledge of the herbs making him useful to Igra in preparing the celebratory feasts.
On the night of the festival, the heart-fire was built higher than Ashen had ever seen it, a roaring pillar of flame that pushed back the immense darkness of the Desolate and painted the faces of the tribe in flickering shades of gold and orange. The air hummed with the deep, rhythmic beat of a drum made from a hollowed log and a stretched Thunderhoof hide. The sound was primal, a heartbeat that seemed to sync with Ashen's own.
The feast was a cacophony of laughter and tearing meat. Stories were told, not the practical lessons of the hunt, but the old, epic tales of the first Stone Wolf chieftains, of great beasts slain, and of spirits of the sand and sun. Ashen listened, enraptured, his own small story feeling insignificant next to these grand legends.
Then, as the twin moons—Silara, the large and pale, and her smaller, reddish sibling, Kaelan—reached their zenith, the mood shifted. The music softened. The storytelling ceased.
Chief Borak stood before the fire, his shadow stretching long and imposing across the sand. The festival was also a time of accounting.
"The Desolate gave," Borak's voice boomed, silencing the last murmurs. "And we took. We remember those who fell to grant us this bounty. We honor their strength." A moment of somber silence passed, filled only by the crackle of the fire.
"And we recognize those whose strength allowed us to take it," he continued, his gaze sweeping the crowd. He called out names. Hunters who had landed killing blows. Scouts who had found the herd. The makers of the spears and ropes that had held true.
Ashen listened, clapping with the others, feeling a swell of pride for his tribe.
Then, Borak's eyes found him. "A hunt is not just made by the strike of the spear. It is made by the eyes that see the path. It is made by the warning that prevents a stumble. It is made by the clever hand that turns a charge."
He paused, letting his words hang in the firelit air. "Ashen. Step forward."
A sudden hush fell over the tribe. This was unprecedented. Children were not named at the Festival. Their deeds were their training, their growth their reward.
Ashen's heart hammered against his ribs. He walked forward on legs that felt suddenly numb, stopping before the Chief. He could feel the weight of every adult's gaze upon him.
Borak looked down at him, his stern face unreadable. Then, he raised his voice so all could hear. "This one, who arrived as ash on the wind, has proven his worth not once, but twice. He stood before the Dune-Cat's tooth and saved a tribesmate with his cry. He read the flow of the Thunderhoof hunt and saved two more with his wit. He does not yet have the arm to kill, but he has the eyes to preserve life. That is a strength as vital as any other."
From his belt, Borak drew not a tool, not a weapon, but an ornament. It was a necklace—a single, long, curved tooth from the Dune-Cat he had faced, polished to a brilliant white and strung on a tough leather cord.
"The Desolate gives, and we take," Borak said, his voice lowering to a tone meant only for Ashen, yet carrying in the utter silence. "But we also give back. We give respect for respect. Strength for strength. This is the tooth of the beast you defied. Wear it. Let it remind you of the day you chose to stand. And let it remind the tribe that strength has many faces."
He placed the necklace over Ashen's head. The tooth felt cool and heavy against his chest, a tangible weight of honor. A roar of approval erupted from the tribe. Not just clapping, but shouts, howls that echoed the tribe's namesake, a fierce and joyful noise that was the highest accolade they could offer.
Ashen stood there, overwhelmed, the weight of the tooth and the weight of their acceptance pressing down on him. He looked out at the faces—Anya's proud smile, Kael's grim nod of approval, Koro and Lina's enthusiastic yelling, Old Mother Igra's knowing smirk.
For the first time, the hollow feeling in his chest didn't feel like an emptiness. It felt… full. Full of the firelight, the drumbeat, the howls of his tribe, the weight of the tooth on his skin. The song Igra had spoken of wasn't a lonely melody from a far-off place. Tonight, it was the song of the Stone Wolves, and he was finally singing along.
He was so full of the present moment that he almost missed it.
As the celebration resumed, he looked up at the twin moons, Silara and Kaelan, shining down on their fragile island of light and noise. And for a single, vertiginous second, his vision blurred.
He didn't see two moons.
He saw a single, bloated, yellow moon hanging in a smog-filled sky, its light reflecting off the glass and steel of towering, impossible structures. The image was accompanied by a wave of sensory memory—the smell of rain on hot asphalt, the blare of a horn, the feeling of smooth, cool plastic under his fingertips.
It was there and gone in a heartbeat, so fast he swayed on his feet, the raucous noise of the festival crashing back in.
He blinked, and the two moons of the Desolate were back, steady and familiar.
He clutched the Dune-Cat tooth tightly in his hand, the sharp point pressing into his palm, anchoring him back to this world, to this life.
The song had changed. For a moment, another verse, from a song he had never heard, had broken through. The vessel of his soul had just received a single, confusing drop from a distant ocean.
He was Ashen of the Stone Wolf tribe. He had earned his place. But he was also
something else. And the walls between were getting thinner.