The dawn came heavy with smoke and song. The whole tribe of Ekuarai gathered in the great hollow where the fire pit roared with cedar and pine. The Ceremony of Passage was not merely tradition—it was the breath of the people, the tether between the living and the ancestors who watched from the veil of stars. No child of sixteen could escape it, for without it one was not counted among the tribe.
Ahayue stood at the edge of the circle, his chest tightening. He wore the simple hide tunic of initiates, painted with red clay streaks that symbolized blood, sacrifice, and life. Around him, the other youths whispered and laughed, glancing sideways at him. He could feel the weight of their eyes. They were stronger, taller, unbroken in body. He was the exception—the cursed boy with a twisted gait and uneven arms.
The High Elder, Yairan, lifted a carved staff of obsidian and bone. His voice was deep, shaking the silence.
"Children of sixteen summers! Today you face the path between life and shadow. You will enter as fledglings, and emerge as hawks—or be forgotten as ash."
A chant rippled across the crowd, rising into a thunderous rhythm. Drums boomed like hearts beating. Flutes wailed like spirits caught in the wind.
Yairan's eyes, black as obsidian, swept across the initiates. When they fell on Ahayue, something flickered there—a mixture of pity and judgment.
The first trial began: The Running of the Flames.
A wide circle of fire had been lit, tongues of flame forming a boundary. Each youth had to sprint through gaps in the blaze, weaving between walls of fire to reach the center where a stone altar awaited. One by one, the children of the tribe leapt forward, agile and fearless, earning cheers.
When Ahayue's turn came, silence fell. He stepped forward, his leg stiff, his balance uneven. The heat bit at his skin. He took a breath, then limped into the fire's dance.
The flames roared close. His body faltered. He stumbled, falling to his knees as sparks burned his arms. Gasps rose from the crowd, followed by laughter—sharp, cutting, merciless.
"Look at him crawl like a worm!" one boy shouted.
"He cannot even pass the first gate!" another cried.
Tears pricked Ahayue's eyes, but he clenched his teeth and pushed forward. With effort, he dragged himself past the fire, skin singed, tunic scorched. When he reached the altar, no cheers greeted him—only silence, then more whispers of mockery.
The second trial began: The Climb of Roots.
A sacred tree rose at the edge of the hollow, its roots thick as serpents, its branches vanishing into mist. The task was simple: climb to the branch marked with a woven talisman and return with it.
The other initiates scrambled upward like monkeys, their limbs sure, their laughter ringing above. One by one they descended, talismans clutched in hand, greeted with approval.
Ahayue approached the roots, his hands trembling. He tried to pull himself up, but his crooked arm betrayed him. He slipped. The bark scraped his skin. He tried again, grunting, pulling, dragging—but his body refused him.
Below, the tribe jeered."Even the tree rejects him!""Cursed blood cannot rise.""Better he stay among the roots where worms belong!"
Ahayue's breath grew ragged. He reached higher, nails digging into bark until they bled. Somehow, he grasped a low talisman—a branch far beneath the others had hidden one, perhaps placed there by an elder's mercy. He tore it free and fell heavily to the ground.
The silence was sharp. Some of the elders looked away in shame. The youths laughed louder.
The final trial awaited: The Circle of Spirits.
At the heart of the hollow, a ring of painted stones encircled a mask carved of bone. Each initiate was to step into the circle, don the mask, and speak aloud the vision that came to them—the voice of the ancestors. It was said that lies burned the tongue, while truth, however small, was blessed.
The youths stepped forward one by one, each uttering grand visions:"I saw myself as a hunter, strong and true.""I saw the tribe feasting under my spear's gift.""I saw the river rising to honor my step."
The tribe cheered each declaration.
When Ahayue entered, the crowd hushed. He lifted the bone mask. It felt heavy, colder than stone. He placed it upon his face.
At once, darkness swallowed him. Whispers filled his skull—voices too many to count, speaking in tongues of stars and earth. Amid them, a single voice cut clear:
"You are not cursed, child. You are chosen. But not for them."
Ahayue gasped, tearing off the mask. The crowd leaned in, eager to hear his vision. His lips trembled.
"I saw… myself leaving."
The words slipped free, raw and honest. A hush swept the hollow.
Then the laughter began, harsher than before."Leaving? He dreams of running away!""He has no vision worth the ancestors' breath!""Truly cursed! He shames the circle!"
Yairan's staff struck the ground, silencing the noise. His eyes pierced Ahayue.
"The boy speaks truth. His path is not ours."
Those words stung more than the jeers. They cut into his bones. He staggered back, the fire's glow blurring with his tears.
That night, when the tribe feasted to honor the new initiates, Ahayue sat apart. His skin bore burns, his hands bled, and his heart ached. The mocking laughter of his peers echoed in his skull.
As the moon rose, silver and cold, he made his choice.
If the tribe saw him as cursed, then he would seek the cure beyond their walls. If the ancestors whispered of another path, then he would follow it—even if it led him into darkness.
He would leave.
He would find the truth of his body, his curse, his fate.
And the Ceremony of Passage, meant to bind him to the tribe, became instead the moment he was severed from it.