The sun climbed high, burning the mists from the valley. The Dawnfire Tribe stirred with greater purpose than usual. Hunters sharpened their spears not for the morning hunt but for the trials that loomed in just a few days — the Ceremony of Passage.
For sixteen years, Ahayue had watched others prepare. Each season brought a new circle of boys and girls, stepping from childhood into the tribe's embrace as adults. They would leap the sacred fire, stand unflinching before the elders, and swear oaths beneath the gaze of the gods. At the end, they were given their first true weapon, a sign they were no longer children.
Ahayue sat by the weaving hut, hands clumsy with fibers, twisting reeds into a mat that sagged in the middle. Around him, others practiced for the ceremony. Teka and his friends wrestled in the dust, their bodies lean and strong. Young women painted their arms with clay patterns, symbols of swiftness and courage. Every face glowed with anticipation.
Every face but his.
He could feel their eyes on him, though none spoke. To them, he was a shadow, not truly part of the circle. Yet the law of the tribe was clear: at sixteen, every child must stand in the Ceremony. Even the cursed.
That evening, as the sky turned purple and the fires were lit, the tribe gathered in the council ring. The drums pounded slow and heavy, echoing against the cliff walls. The elders sat in a half-circle, their heads crowned with feathers and beads, smoke curling from the bowls of burning herbs before them.
Ahayue sat behind his mother at the edge of the gathering, half-hidden in the shadows. He wished he could sink into the earth, but the council's words bound him here.
"The Ceremony will fall on the third dawn," announced Elder Senu, his voice deep as the riverbed. His eyes swept over the gathered youths. "Those of age shall prove their strength, their courage, and their faith. Only then may they bear the tribe's mark as Dawnfire adults."
A murmur of excitement rippled through the crowd. The youths straightened, eager, determined.
Then Elder Senu's gaze shifted. It landed on Ahayue like a stone.
"And even the… less fortunate," he said, his voice lowering, "must take part. For the gods' law spares none."
The words were like poison, meant for all to hear. A few chuckles stirred in the crowd. Someone whispered, "The CC will shame us all."
Ahayue's chest tightened, but he kept his face still. He would not give them his pain.
Later, by the dying fire, his mother's hands rested on his shoulders.
"You are strong enough," she said quietly, as though saying it aloud would make it true.
"I am not," Ahayue whispered. The words tore from him before he could stop them. "You saw their faces. They want me to fail. They want the gods to curse me deeper."
Inea's eyes softened, but her grip did not. "Strength is not only in the body, Ahayue. It is here." She pressed her hand against his chest. "A crooked tree still grows toward the sun. And sometimes, it alone survives the storm."
Ahayue lowered his head. He wanted to believe her. He wanted her words to be enough. But when he closed his eyes, all he saw were the sneers, the laughter, the pity.
The days before the ceremony blurred with preparation. Drums thundered from dawn to dusk as the youths trained. They leapt fire pits, scaled the cliffs, and practiced chants to the gods.
Ahayue tried to join them once. His leg buckled on the climb, and he slipped. Laughter rained down like stones. Teka's voice cut through: "Better stay on the ground, curse-boy. The gods might trip you harder."
After that, Ahayue kept his distance. He carved in silence, wood shavings piling at his feet. His carvings were rough, uneven, but he pressed on, as if each cut of the knife could slice away his shame.
On the night before the ceremony, Ahayue couldn't sleep. The tribe's fires had burned low, casting only embers across the valley. He sat outside his hut, staring at the moon. Its pale light painted the earth silver, soft and cold.
"Why me?" he whispered into the dark. His twisted leg ached in the cool air. His trembling hand rested on the earth, fingers curling in the dirt. "If you cursed me, then take me. If you blessed me, then show me. But do not leave me between."
The night gave no answer. Only the distant cry of a night-bird echoed through the cliffs.
Yet in that silence, Ahayue felt something stir within him — not a voice, but a pull, like the river tugging at a stone. For the first time, he wondered if his body's brokenness was not random, but… chosen.
The thought frightened him more than the laughter ever had.
Dawn came swift and merciless. The valley filled with smoke and song as the tribe prepared the sacred fire. Youths painted their faces with bright ochre and white clay, symbols of bravery and purity. Warriors stood tall, spears gleaming, as if to remind the children of the path they must take.
Ahayue stood at the edge, unpainted, unprepared. His mother pressed a strip of red cloth into his hand — the same one she wore in her hair.
"Go with this," she whispered. "It is all I can give."
He tied it clumsily around his arm, its color burning against his skin like flame.
As the drums began, and the circle of youths stepped forward into the firelight, Ahayue followed. His body trembled, but he lifted his chin.
The Ceremony of Passage had begun.