The dawn that followed was pale and cold. Ahayue woke beneath the roots of an old oak, his body stiff from the ground's hardness and his wolfskin cloak damp with morning dew. The forest smelled of earth and wet moss, and the cries of waking birds echoed above. For a moment, he lay still, staring at the canopy of leaves, wondering if he had dreamed it all—the Ceremony, the laughter, the spirit-wolf.
But the burns on his arms and the ache in his twisted leg told him otherwise. He was far from the tribe, and there was no path to return.
He rose slowly, his joints protesting. His satchel felt lighter already; the dried roots he carried were few, his waterskin half-empty. He chewed on a strip of bark to silence the gnawing in his stomach. It tasted bitter, but he forced himself to swallow.
Thus began the days of hardship.
The first day was manageable. He followed the stream, drinking sparingly, searching for berries along the banks. Now and then, he thought he spotted tracks of deer or rabbit, but he had no bow, no snare, not even a sharpened stick worth hunting with. His crooked arm could not throw far, and his leg dragged when he tried to run.
He settled that evening with nothing but a handful of sour berries. His stomach growled, but his will held firm.
By the second day, the hunger gnawed deeper. His lips cracked from thirst when the stream turned rocky and disappeared into the earth. The sun burned hot above, and his cloak felt like a burden more than a comfort. He stumbled often, catching himself on trees, each fall bruising his body further.
That night, he dreamed of meat—rich, steaming, torn fresh from the fire. He woke biting his own tongue.
On the third day, weakness became his shadow. His legs shook with every step. His arms felt heavy as stones. He tried to dig up roots with a sharp rock, but most were too hard to chew. His stomach cramped with emptiness.
It was not only the body that suffered. Loneliness crept into him, more biting than hunger. The forest was vast and alive, yet he felt like a shadow within it—unseen, unspoken to. The laughter of his tribe haunted him still, echoing between the trees. Worse, his own doubts whispered louder each night:
You are too weak.You were never meant to survive.Go back. Crawl back. Die where you belong.
On the fourth day, he collapsed beside a fallen log and did not rise for hours. The world spun with dizziness. His breath rasped, shallow and weak. For the first time since leaving, despair overwhelmed him. He pressed his face into the earth, tears wetting the soil.
"Spirits," he whispered hoarsely, "if I am chosen… why let me starve? Why mark me if only to kill me here, alone?"
The forest gave no answer.
Only the wind shifted, rustling the leaves.
That evening, as the sun bled into red across the horizon, he dragged himself to a small clearing. There he found a bush heavy with dark berries. He did not recognize them. Hunger screamed at him to eat, but caution held him back. Some berries fed, others killed.
He remembered his mother's voice, teaching him as a child: "Bitter sap warns of poison. Sweet juice can lie. The ancestors gave us fire to test what the tongue cannot."
Fire.
His hands shook as he gathered dry twigs. His flint stone scraped again and again, sparks failing, dying. His arms ached. His patience cracked. At last, a spark caught. Smoke curled upward, flame blooming weakly.
He fed the fire and dropped a handful of berries into it, watching them blister and pop. The smell was sharp, acrid, wrong. He threw them away, stomach growling in protest. Better hunger than death.
That night, he curled near the fire. The warmth comforted him, but the emptiness inside grew unbearable. His body was thin, his ribs showing. He felt hollow, less boy than shadow.
Still, the fire's light whispered something into him: survival was not given—it was made. He had kindled this flame, weak though it was. He had chosen not to poison himself. He had lived another day.
On the fifth day, he discovered a nest at the base of a cliff—eggs, speckled and fragile. His hands shook as he took them, guilt biting his heart for robbing the unseen bird. But when he cracked one open and roasted it over his fire, the rich taste of yolk nearly made him weep.
Strength trickled back into him with every bite. Not much, but enough.
Enough to walk. Enough to hope.
That evening, as stars returned, he stood by his fire and raised his face to the sky. His voice was rough, but he spoke into the vastness.
"I will not die here. I will not crawl back to the tribe. I will walk forward, even if the world breaks me. If the spirits marked me, let them show me why. If the curse can be undone, I will find how."
The wind stirred, carrying the scent of rain.
And for the first time since leaving the tribe, Ahayue felt the faintest answer—not in words, but in the quiet resolve that grew in his chest. He was not yet healed. Not yet strong. But he had survived the hunger of days.
And that was a beginning.