The valley of the Dawnfire Tribe was alive with the noise of morning. Smoke curled from the cooking pits as women roasted river fish, their skins crackling and popping in the heat. Children's laughter rang out like birdsong, chasing each other between the reed huts, their bare feet kicking up the dust. Warriors sharpened spears by the firelight, and the village dogs howled at the sun that slowly crept over the distant ridge.
Among the noise, one boy sat quietly at the edge of the healer's hut. His name was Ahayue.
The mat beneath him was fraying, its reed edges splitting from years of wear. Ahayue's right leg bent inwards unnaturally, pressing against his other knee, while his left hand trembled whenever he tried to grip tightly. Still, he stubbornly held a carving knife, trying to shape a piece of driftwood into the likeness of a bird. His fingers slipped, and the knife dug too deep. The wood cracked, snapping in two.
A chorus of snickers rose behind him.
"Look!" a boy's voice shouted. "The Cursed Child can't even carve a toy."
Ahayue didn't turn. He didn't need to. The voices belonged to Teka and his friends — boys his age, strong-shouldered, quick-footed, already training with spears. Unlike Ahayue, their limbs obeyed them.
"Maybe the gods will bless us if we break all the sticks for him," another added, laughter following like arrows.
Heat rushed to Ahayue's face. He wanted to snap back, to say something sharp enough to wound. But his mother's words rose in him like a shield: "The strong do not waste breath on the empty wind." So he stayed silent, clutching the broken wood in his shaking hands.
Yet silence did not shield the ache in his chest.
The tribe whispered that Ahayue's twisted body was the mark of the Moon God's curse. Some said he was punishment for an ancestor's betrayal. Others believed his presence invited bad harvests and misfortune. Children had learned from their elders to keep their distance. Only his mother and the old healer spoke to him with kindness.
He sometimes dreamed of running with the others, leaping across the river rocks, chasing fireflies at dusk. But dreams did not change bone or flesh.
"Ahayue," a gentle voice called.
He looked up. His mother, Inea, stood beside him, her arms filled with bundles of herbs. Her dark hair was tied with a strip of red cloth, her eyes the same sharp amber as his. Unlike the rest of the tribe, she never looked at him with pity or fear. Only with fierce, unyielding love.
"You'll ruin your hands if you press too hard," she said softly, kneeling beside him. With her sure fingers, she guided his trembling hand, easing the knife into a smoother cut on a fresh piece of wood. "Like this. Let the blade do the work, not your anger."
Ahayue lowered his gaze. "They laugh."
"They will always laugh," Inea said, her voice calm but heavy. "Not because you are weak, but because they are afraid. Fear hides itself behind cruel tongues."
Ahayue swallowed. "Am I cursed?"
Her hand stilled on his. She didn't answer immediately. The morning wind rustled through the huts, carrying the smell of smoke and river water. Finally, she whispered, "Cursed or blessed, you are mine. And that is enough."
But for Ahayue, it was not enough.
Later that day, the boys gathered by the riverbank. They were playing Stone Leap, a game of balance and speed. Smooth stones jutted from the river, slippery with moss. The goal was simple: cross without falling. Warriors said it built a hunter's feet, quick and sure.
"Come, Ahayue!" Teka shouted mockingly, spotting him on the edge of the clearing. "Prove you're not all bones and curses."
Laughter rippled through the group. Some of the younger children clapped, eager for the show. Ahayue's throat tightened. His mother's voice told him to walk away, but his heart screamed otherwise. If he fled, their words would brand him coward. If he tried, he would fail, and the shame would be greater.
Yet something inside him stirred — a voice he barely recognized. One day, I will stand among them.
Before he could stop himself, he stepped forward.
The stones were slick under his feet. His bent leg quivered with each step, threatening to buckle. Behind him, laughter already rose. Ahead, the river roared, its cold waters waiting to swallow him.
He clenched his jaw. One step. Then another. His arms flailed for balance.
A stone shifted beneath him. His weak knee gave out. He pitched forward — and suddenly, his hand shot out, grabbing a reed at the river's edge. His body dangled dangerously above the water, but he didn't fall.
Gasps echoed behind him. For a heartbeat, the laughter stopped.
Ahayue's chest heaved as he pulled himself back onto the stone. His muscles screamed, but he stood. His trembling leg straightened, just enough for him to leap to the next stone. Not gracefully, not like the others — but he landed.
The river spray kissed his face. For a fleeting moment, he felt taller than the sky.
Then a voice jeered: "See? Even curses can stumble across stones." The laughter returned, harsher, sharper.
Ahayue's brief triumph shattered. His arms and legs betrayed him once more, and with a final slip, he plunged into the river. The cold seized him, dragging him under as the children's laughter roared above.
He surfaced choking, flailing toward the bank. No one offered a hand. He crawled ashore alone, water dripping from his hair, his heart heavy.
But beneath the shame, buried deep, a spark burned brighter. For a single moment, they had been silent. For a single moment, he had stood.
One day, he swore to himself again, teeth clenched against the cold, I will stand, and they will not laugh.