Chapter 1

“Is it time already?”

Hakon lifted his gaze to the fleeting rays of sunlight slipping through the cracks in the hut’s roof.

His fingers brushed the pyre torch beside him but paused. No matter how much he wanted to continue, it would be over the moment he ignited the torch. If he chose the old writings over the Rite, his father would kill him. Literally.

He could already imagine it–his father’s fingers closing around his throat in an iron-tight grip, lifting him high for the tribe to see. His neck snapped to soothe the Ancestor spirits.

Taking a deep breath, his moves slow and meticulous, Hakon closed the hide scroll. Today he did not want to give his father a reason to loath him. Or the Ancestors for that matter.

He rose from the creaking chair and slid the scroll onto the sparse shelf beside a dozen others. No one in the tribe owned so many. Most people had no use for scribbled lines they neither wanted nor could understand. Of course, that excluded the Shaman. His stock was far greater. Or so he claimed.

“Later,” Hakon muttered.

He had been close, so close, to understanding one of the big words. The kind that felt important. As if it might untangle the rest of the mishmash without the Shaman’s help.

Stepping out into the open room, a familiar shadow blocked the entrance. A towering frame filled the doorway; wide as it was tall, built from muscle and decades of constant battle.

“You are nervous.” The gravelly voice of the chieftain, Hakon’s father, echoed through the hut. Sharp. Judgmental.

Dark eyes flicked past Hakon to the shelf. “The scribbles again?”

The air grew heavier and cracked.

“You should have trained before the Rite,” his father said, disappointment cutting deeper than anger. “Instead, you read?”

Hakon opened his mouth, then closed it. He had no excuse.

“The Shaman has arrived,” the chieftain continued. “Do not be late.”

That was an order, not a request.

His father’s jaw tightened when Hakon didn’t move right away, and, without another word, he turned and left.

“You need a good fight,” Hakon muttered after him. “Raid the Pearot Tribe or delve into a Fracture.”

The words went unheard. That was probably for the best or the chieftain would have given him a beating, Rite or not.

Father had been tense – ever since the next Rite had been announced by the Shaman. It had been cycles since the last Rite in Taskur, and with each passing season, doubt had crept deeper into the tribe.

Were the Ancestors angry? Had they turned their backs?

This cycle would change everything.

The young would undergo the Rite and awaken as warriors. The Ancestor spirits would judge them and, if worthy, remove the first seal of the curse the Fallen had cast upon the tribes. So it was told.

And the chieftain expected his son’s Rite to be special. He expected Hakon to follow his footsteps and become a real warrior. Hakon wanted that as well. After several disappointing cycles, it was time for him to awaken and become his father’s equal. To take the first stride into surpassing the chieftain.

That thought made him smile. He was going to surpass his father!

Hakon pulled the fur from his shoulders, exposing his bare chest – shaped by blood, sweat, and cycles of relentless training. Scars crossed his skin, each one earned in a bloodbath. His fingers lingered over them before closing around the necklace resting against his collarbone.

A Wind Wolf’s fangs. A Nightshade Panther’s claws. The same claws that had torn into his flesh. The same fangs that had nearly ripped out his throat. Those were his trophies. His greatest possession. A sign of power. A promise to the Ancestor spirits.

Hakon did not rush. He fixed the trophy necklace’s position, then secured his axes and bone daggers with the practiced movements of a hunter.

“The Lifeblood within me stirs,” he quoted one of the old tales with a chuckle, hand pressed over his pounding heart.

Excitement coiled tight in his chest. After cycles of waiting, the day had finally come.

He stepped out of the hut in long, confident strides, and the tribe noticed him. Several residents, each tall, towering, and covered in muscle, turned to him and smiled. They eyed him, their expressions widening as they noticed the necklace. The trophy necklace was that special. It was proof the wearer ventured into the wild to hunt creatures only those who should have already undergone the Rite were meant to best.

Hakon escaped death by a hair’s breadth more often than he could bother to count, but it was all worth it. For today. To show everyone what he was capable of. That he did not need his father to be a real warrior.

He might be the chieftain’s son, but the trophy necklace earned him respect that was, for once, not inherited. They respected him for his strength and achievements, not his blood.

He soon reached the masses gathered around the Tribehold’s center. Marked by colossal stone statues from the Ancestors’ era stood the heart of the tribe, the Monolith. A black structure made of indestructible material. Not even the strongest warriors could scratch its surface. It was greatest gift the Ancestors had left behind, with the promise to grant the strength needed to survive and shed blood for them.

“The Zeldron,” Hakon mused, glancing at the statues. Neither time nor nature’s wrath had managed to wear them down. They stood as tall as he remembered, guarding the Monolith, protecting the Ancestors’ gift.

His smile widened, only to crack as he caught wind of Ulfur and his friends. If one could call them that. They followed Ulfur everywhere. Not because they liked him but because he too left the tribe to hunt. He was strong, his potential as promising as Hakon’s, and their parents’ rivalry only fueled the competitive fire. So did the tribesmen. They too wanted to see who was going to become the next chieftain.

Would a new family rise to claim the tribe or would Tribe remain in the Taskur family? Hakon was willing to give everything to make sure Ulfar would not defeat him. Not now, not ever.

People gathered around Hakon as soon as they noticed him, but he waved them off until only Björn the Bear and Astrid Ironheart remained.

“Skincrawler?” Björn asked with a bright smile. He was as tall as a bear and just as hairy. Most of his body was covered in thick brown hair, though it did little to hide his hulking muscles.

He was strong, his trophy necklace adorned with a single paw–a bear’s paw.

“I am ready. Have been for several cycles,” Hakon said, shaking his head.

Astrid stood quietly by their side. She greeted Hakon with a slow nod, the faintest hint of a smile tugging at her lips.

If Björn was a normal member of the Taskur tribe, Astrid was… well, Astrid. She was different from anyone Hakon knew.

Astrid was short for a tribewoman. She wore her long golden hair in an intricate braid for the occasion. Her pale skin was marred by a few scars. Too few for all the claws and fangs adorning her necklace. Most of her prey could not compare to the Nightshade Panther, but Astrid was deadly. On the surface, she looked like she might break easily. Those who grew up with her knew better.

The finger of a Pearot tribesman attached to her necklace made clear what happened to those who underestimated her. Thinking back to her encounter with the lusting man of the Pearot tribe, Hakon could only smile. Astrid showed everyone what she was capable of that day.

She nudged Hakon in the side and motioned toward the Monolith. The Shaman had arrived, his bare body covered in tattoos that moved with his every motion. It was as if the intricate designs on his skin were alive. Some tattoos appeared oddly familiar. They resembled something Hakon had seen before. Somewhere.

The Monolith!

His eyes flicked past the Shaman, locking onto the engravings of the Ancestors’ gift.

“That look.” Björn grunted, pointing directly at Hakon’s face.

“Again?” Astrid asked quietly, shaking her head. Somehow, that bothered him more than Björn’s finger jabbing toward him.

“The Rite,” she added before he could say anything.

Lips sealed, Hakon watched the Shaman as if bewitched, his gaze drifting from the engravings on the Monolith back to the lifelike tattoos. He only faintly noticed the first of Ulfar’s people stepping toward the Monolith, until the man blocked his view.

“Only blood earns remembrance,” the Shaman intoned as the man cut his palm with a bone dagger.

He pressed his bleeding hand against the Monolith, blood running down his wrist. A single droplet trickled to the ground, the sound of its splash barely audible beneath the low hum reverberating through the tribehold’s center.

“May the Ancient guide you,” the Shaman ushered, pressing his own palm against the Monolith as it began to emit a faint, semi-translucent glow.

His eyes turned white, his expression impossible to read.

“Bloodbearer,” he declared, his tone deeper – more – than it had been moments ago, the word echoing through the tribehold.

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“Thank the Ancestors!” the newly awakened warrior roared, flexing his muscles as his body expanded.

The excitement died seconds later. His expression distorted to one of unbearable pain: sickening crunches resounded, his skin tore open, and blood spilled from his orifices all at once.

“What an idiot.” Hakon shook his head.

While not exceptional, Giant Blood was powerful. Anyone awakening it would grow considerably, their physical might skyrocketing depending on the synergy with their Barbarian Physique. Physical traits like Giant Blood worked well with the tribes’ Physiques, especially the Blood of Zeldron the Barbarians of Taskur were known to awaken. Even better, there was a history of Giant Blood among Bloodbearers among the older warriors. They would guide the young warriors.

The idiot would fare well in the next hunt, assuming he didn’t kill himself by using Giant Blood before his body could adapt.

“So much lust,” Björn grunted, eyes fixed on the women of the tribe. They stared at the idiot, who had yet to suppress the potency of his power, with naked desire. Greedily.

That came as no surprise. As stupid as the man was, he was the first in many cycles to awaken a power. Nearly ten cycles had passed, and the women could sense the strength resting within him. It was just waiting to erupt.

“Are you a skincrawler now, or do you want to be like him?” Hakon asked half-mockingly. When Björn glared at him, he added, “Don’t worry. They’ll calm down once a few more Bloodbearers awaken.”

The first Awakening of a Bloodbearer after ten cycles of drought carried the same thrill as returning successfully from a hunt after a season of misfortune–It was intoxicating, but fleeting. The excitement would fade once the same ‘miracle’ happened several times in quick succession.

“That fool is nothing. I am better!” Björn growled, pushing through the masses toward the Monolith. To make a point. To awaken a great power and show Hakon.

“You had to do that, didn’t you?” Astrid asked, shaking her head. Though the smile on her lips widened.

“Yes.” Hakon shrugged, moving closer to the Monolith as well. “He’ll be fine. I doubt the Ancestors would bless him with a failed power.”

“Rootkeeper!”

The Shaman’s voice thundered through the tribehold once more. Hakon froze for a moment before his head snapped toward the Monolith. Björn was nowhere near the Monolith just yet. It was one of Ulfar’s friends who’d awakened the power of a Rootkeeper.

Rootkeepers were no warriors. Those bearing the power of Rootkeepers would never match their peers in battle. Still, the power was vital – tending the tribe’s fields, sustaining it through the longest winters. As long as someone stood beside them in defense, all would be well.

And one of the women joining the Rite was very eager to do so. She approached the Monolith in large strides, eyes lingering on the cursing Rootkeeper. She slashed her palm open and slapped it against the stone, licking her lips greedily.