“Okay! Round up everyone, get in line.” Old Maise broke them out of their uncomfortable silence some time later, waving her hands to get the attention of the gaggle of teenagers. “We’re just about ready to begin, so line up - I don’t really care how.”

Slowly at first, uncertain of where they wanted to fall in line, the group began shifting to a more cohesive form. Laura, confident as always, made her way to the front of the line, Benjamin and Ilyash following behind her like a pair of goslings trailing after their mother while glancing longingly towards the back of the line. Further away, Ilyash spotted Liz moving towards the back of the line and wished he was back there too…although maybe not with her, if she really wanted to be a follower of Zoryn.

As the young men and women settled into their positions, the drum beat nearby changed from a festive rhythm to a more somber, slow, beat which made Ilyash vaguely uncomfortable. The atmosphere in the area, which had grown increasingly loud and boisterous over the preceding half hour seemed to instantly settle. Groups of people which had previously been crowding around tables or standing in circles of their own, filed towards the amphitheater of benches before the central fire. Many sat, but the majority of the audience remained standing as there weren’t enough seats with good visibility to fit the entirety of the village.

A hush fell over the area, as everyone waited for the Ritual of Age to begin.

Old Maise made her way to the center of the semi-circle, placing herself between the drummer and the enormous fire which roared at the center of the clearing, joining the wizened old man also walking in the same direction, his frame small and thin, with wispy white hair and a face full of wrinkles. The old man’s hands were gnarled and covered in age spots but still firmly gripped his walking cane as he walked alongside the woman with sure steps. His other hand held a familiar wooden bowl, one Ilyash had seen every year he could remember attending the Ritual. He couldn’t see the knife, but assumed it was hidden inside of the old man’s clothing.

The man spoke, his voice loud and clear despite his age, “Welcome, Homstad, to our annual gathering. Tonight, these children, whom you have all watched grow up over the last eighteen years will become the adults they are meant to be. We celebrate them, and each and every one of you who helped raise these young ones.

“Welcome to the Ritual of Age. A ritual which predates the slumber of the Blood God, while its origins lost to us, its importance undiminished. Tonight, we offer blood to the ancestors in hopes that they will guide our young ones into adulthood, as they’ve done for generations.

“Children,” he spoke, turning to the line of young men and women, watching him with bated breath. “Come, and offer up the blood to your ancestors so that they may guide you into the future.”

With those words, the old man, Elder Hammad, impaled his cane into the earth at his side and used the freed hand to draw a small, intricately crafted weapon with a gleaming, slender blade out of the folds of his robes. The haft of the blade was simple, made of some sort of bone which had long-since yellowed with age, but its blade remained pristine, as if entirely untouched by countless years. Ilyash could have sworn that the knife had a vague glow to it, although he’d never noticed that in any of his previous visits as a watcher of the Ritual of Age.

“Come, Laura, my child, I see you’re as eager as always.” The elder beckoned Ilyash’s friend who seemed to hesitate for a brief moment before striding confidently across the clearing. Backlit by the massive fire as she walked, Laura raised her hands to lower her ever-present hood from her head and turned her head back towards her friends to smile brightly at them, seemingly entirely unconcerned about the audience.

Stopping in front of the two elders, Laura stretched out her left arm in front of herself before speaking, “I am ready, Elder.”

Nodding to her, Elder Hammand handed the large bowl he had carried to Old Maise and shifted his grip on the knife.

“Then we begin!” the Elder proclaimed, “Ancestors, hear our call and guide this young one. Show the path that lies before our daughter, Laura.”

With his words, the even drumbeat which had heralded Laura’s walk grew quieter even as it sped up into a quiet crescendo, adding to the crowd’s waiting anticipation. All around, the gathered audience of hundreds had grown deathly silent, their eyes fixed on the trio standing in front of the fire.

Ilyash himself was as transfixed by the scene as the rest of the audience - this was it, his best friend was becoming an adult. She’d be leaving in the morning. He wanted to shout, to scream, to stop everything…but he couldn’t. That wasn’t the kind of person that he was, he knew. Merely the sort that would rage inside of his head..and then not do anything where it mattered.

Staring up at the sky for a moment, the elder raised both arms above his head before re-focusing back on the girl, grasping her outstretched arm with his free hand and carefully raising the blade in his right. Intent, his hand steady despite his age, Hammand brought the edge of the blade gently down on the soft underside of Laura’s forearm, a line of scarlet staining her skin.

The other elder,Maise, quickly moved the bowl underneath the pair’s arms, waiting for the swelling blood to drip down into the wooden vessel and watching as it pooled within. Deeming the blood sufficient, Maise handed Laura a length of white cloth, motioning for her to bind the wound, waiting patiently for the girl to bandage the arm and accept the waiting container of blood.

Ilyash watched as Laura took the bowl from Maise’ outstretched hand and walked over to the fire before speaking quietly, but audibly, “Ancestors, guide me.”

As she spoke, Laura flung the contents of the bowl into the raging fire, its heat palpable even from Ilyash’s position a dozen yards away. As the sanguine liquid touched the flames and sublimated, the fire itself was transformed as Ilyash had seen many times before. The tongues of fire changing from their orange and red hue to one of purple and a dark shape could be seen within the depths.

A flower appeared within the depths of the inferno, one that Ilyash had never seen before: a round bulb, petals arranged in a circular pattern around the center. From the bulb, the stem reached down in a straight line, broken intermittently by leaves and what looked like vicious thorns. A single drop of dark, what Ilyash assumed was meant to be liquid, hung just above the center of the bulb, though he couldn’t make out what it was intended to symbolize.

This tale has been unlawfully obtained from Royal Road. If you discover it on Amazon, kindly report it.

Hanging within the flames for a long moment, the flower faded away as the fire returned to its usual color, crackling merrily as if nothing had happened. Ilyash watched as Laura stepped back and turned towards the Elders, a look of confusion on her face.

The two elders beckoned her over, speaking inaudibly to the girl - no, woman - before motioning for her to join her family in the audience.

“The ancestors have spoken, so is our Laura’s path set.” Elder Hammand intoned, his face solemn.

“Next we have…” the Elder paused, glancing at the line and seeing Benjamin standing just in front of Ilyash in the line. “Benjamin. Let us see what the Ancestors may say for our adopted son. Come child.”

Benjamin seemed to hesitate for a long moment, prompting Ilyash to give him a gentle nudge in the back to get his friend moving. Giving Ilyash a dirty look over his shoulder, Benjamin began to slowly make his way towards the elders, stopping in front of them hesitantly, unsure of how to behave.

Ilyash had to admit, the sight was somewhat comical, the two elders barely reaching the young man’s waist, looking upwards at the towering youth. Despite the comedy, Ilyash couldn’t help but think that his friend looked almost…menacing. The young man’s figure granted a fiery outline by the raging inferno that was the massive fire behind the trio.

Seemingly at Hammand’s quiet prompting, Benjamin knelt down in front of the pair and repeated Laura’s gesture, stretching out his left arm for the sacrifice. The same scene as before repeated itself, Elder Hammand touching the knife to the young man’s hand to draw a line of blood.

The blood gathered and his arm bandaged, Benjamin rose to his feet and strode over to the fire, hesitating for a brief moment before emptying the bowl with force into the flames and repeating the traditional words, “Ancestors, guide me.”

Ilyash wasn’t too sure what would happen, Benjamin’s family wasn’t from the village so he wasn’t sure who - if anyone - would show his friend the way forward. Luckily, he didn’t have to wait long as the fire once more changed. Unlike the previous time however, this time the flames turned to a deep maroon tone and a circle materialized inside the fire. Within the circle, another shape hovered - that of a sword, drawn in black flame and seeming to draw in light from the surroundings.

“Atyr” Ilyash heard someone whisper behind him.

The god of war had chosen. The god of war had chosen his friend?! Ilyash was stunned for a moment, thinking there must be some mistake. His friend, who refused to hunt because he couldn’t stand the thought of hurting another living being, was marked by Atyr, the God of War. Surely it was a mistake.

And yet…the ring and the sword hung in the flames for another moment before they too faded away to the crackling of logs. Benjamin didn’t move, his back rigid as he stared into the fire, initially unresponsive to the prompts of the Elders. Finally, after Elder Maise walked over to him and reached up to grab his hand, he shook himself out of his reverie and the pair of them walked over to rejoin Elder Hammand for a quiet conversation before Benjamin found himself ushered over to his parents, a tiny couple who looked as out of place next to their son as the rest of the village.

It seemed Benjamin’s dreams were accurate, the Flame, the Sword of War, had chosen his friend as a champion of some sort. Did that mean…

Ilyash glanced backwards, his gaze trying to find Liz’ shape at the back of a line but only saw his neighbor gesturing something to him. Gulping, Ilyash realized that it was his turn. “Was it too late to sneak to the back of the line?” he thought, his mind whirling between fear for himself, concern for his friend, and unease at the thought of the god of Blood and Destruction choosing someone from their village for…some purpose.

Clearing his throat, Elder Hammand looked over towards Ilyash and the remaining group of young men and women. “Ilyash, will you join us? Come. Come.” He spoke, gesturing for Ilyash to come forward.

Ilyash walked over to the two elders, almost stopping as the heat of the fire grew hotter and hotter on his skin as he approached. For a moment, he couldn’t hear anything except the roar of the flames even as his gaze focused on the two in front of him; he kept putting one foot in front of the other.

Finally stopping a mere foot away from the pair, Ilyash swallowed once again and raised his left arm in front of him, offering it up but inwardly already wincing at the pain of the wound as the dreambeat once again pounded a dull crescendo.

Elder Hammand smiled at him, a reassuring smile, even as his cold fingers gripped Ilyash’s wrist, his opposing arm raising the blade, its blade shining in the firelight. Gently, he lowered the blade to barely kiss the boy’s arm and Ilyash realized that he didn’t actually feel anything despite the swell of blood that began to drip down into the bowl Old Maise had proffered while he was distracted by the knife.

Drip. Drip. Drip.

The process seemed to take forever, all the while Ilyash could focus on nothing but the blood flowing from his arm, the roar of the fire, and its heat on his face and arms. Finally, the elders deemed the bowl sufficiently filled and offered him a simple linen bandage for him to staunch the blood flow.

Carefully wrapping his arm, Ilyash struggled for a moment in trying to tie a knot to hold the cloth in place. Finishing, he looked up at the two elders, seeing the woman offering him the bowl, a red puddle coloring its base. “How did the ancestors differentiate between my blood, and that of my peers”, he wondered, it had to get mixed up together after all these uses…

Hammand cleared his throat to wake Ilyash from his reverie, only the everpresent heat of the fire preventing his cheeks from coloring further from his distraction.

Slowly turning towards the fire, Ilyash took the bowl from Maise’ hands and walked over to the fire, the heat becoming more and more oppressive with every step that he took. Finally, unable to bear it any more, Ilyash stopped and after hesitating for one more moment, flung the blood into the fire, the bowl itself almost slipping from his fingers, his nerves leaving them clumsy.

As the blood splashed into the flames, screams startled Ilyash, sounding as if they were right next to him.

“VENGEANCE!”

“ARGH IT HURTS! PALADIN!”

“MURDERER!”

“FILTHY HUMAN!”

And on and on they went, a cacophony of screams echoing in his head, the bowl clattering to the earth as he desperately raised his hands to cover his ears to protect them from the noise.

Then, everything went quiet.

The screams stilled.

The gathering was silent.

Even the ever-present crescendo of the drum seemed to be absent.

The fire itself seemed to become mute as its flames changed to a cold, icy blue color. The heat, which had been stifling Ilyash, was gone as the hair on his body stood on end, goosebumps covering every inch of skin. Within the flames, Ilyash saw whirling shapes, hundreds of figures rising and falling. The details were indistinct, but countless multitudes of individual figures seemed to storm through the sapphire flames, some seeming to march in orderly lines, while others floated above. Finally, a single shape grew from the depths of the fire, a winged creature made of distinct bones grew and grew, dwarfing the rest of the shapes as they collapsed in its wake.

Finally, even that figure faded, leaving behind a single bone hanging in the depths of the flame, a crack splitting it in half.