Smoke coiled like ghostly fingers from the scorched earth, rising in lazy spirals around Jackie's boots. The wind was hushed, reverent, as if even the elements dared not speak too loudly in the wake of what had just transpired.
He stood at the heart of the impact crater, the soil around him blackened and glassed by otherworldly fire. His companions, warriors of his tribe and of the allied Neri, lingered just beyond the ring of scorched stone, their faces pale in the light of dying embers.
Where the spectral Ancient King had vanished, nothing remained but silence—until Jackie's gaze caught the glint of something nestled among the soot and ash.
A fragment.
Small, but unmistakably shaped—a jagged shard of golden iron with a curve like a crown's broken arc. Charred at its edges but still warm, it pulsed faintly with inner fire, a flickering heartbeat of ancestral power.
Jackie knelt. The ground beneath him hummed. As his fingers closed around the fragment, a rush of heat flooded his palm, coursing up his veins. His breath hitched as his Wolfflame blood surged in answer, not in rage, but reverence. The fragment didn't burn him—it welcomed him.
Behind him, the warriors shifted in awe.
Yara stepped forward first. "Jackie... is that—?"
He rose slowly, holding the shard aloft. It pulsed again, and in that flash of orange-gold light, every man and woman present saw it: a faint silhouette of the Ancient King, etched in light across Jackie's shoulders. It faded instantly, but the meaning was clear.
The Ancients had chosen him.
"The crown of the Flame-Wrought King," Rahu muttered, his voice thick with disbelief. "It's true, then. The prophecy breathes."
None spoke for several heartbeats. Even the wind held its breath.
Jackie turned to face them, the crown fragment in hand, his voice quiet but unwavering. "The Ancients are not all foes. This one judged me. And in my fire, he saw something... worth sparing."
Rahu stepped closer, eyes scanning the ground, the heavens, then Jackie. "And he gave you this?"
Jackie nodded. "A mark. Not of dominion... but of trust."
He looked down at the fragment again. In its warped, blackened metal, he saw not just the reflection of flame—but himself, standing taller than he had before, with the weight of fire and history upon his shoulders.
"We must return," Jackie said. "The elders need to see this. All of us do."
The warriors nodded. Even those from the Neri, bound by newfound respect, bowed their heads.
The silence broke—not in terror, but in purpose.
The journey back down the mountain was made in solemn quiet, each step crunching through cooled ash and fire-kissed stone. Jackie led them, the crown fragment wrapped in deer hide and cradled to his chest. The Heartstone at his belt pulsed slowly, its crimson glow resonating with the relic's warmth, a rhythm like two hearts learning to beat as one.
Yara walked beside him, close enough that her shoulder brushed his. She didn't speak, but he felt her presence—steady, grounding. She had followed him through mist, betrayal, and fire. He no longer questioned her place at his side.
When they crested the final hill and the village came into view, the sky was just beginning to darken. Pale ribbons of light lingered behind them where the comet had streaked hours before, casting the village in soft rose and gold.
They were expected.
Torches lined the paths. Villagers gathered in silent clusters, elders at the center. The great drum was silent, its skin untouched. Ritual silence.
Jackie stepped into the circle, flanked by his warriors and the Neri guests.
Elder Rohun, high voicekeeper, stepped forward, his tattoos glowing faintly in the torchlight. "You went to meet the sky's wrath."
"I did," Jackie replied. "And I returned with a truth none of us can ignore."
He unwrapped the hide and revealed the crown fragment. A collective gasp rippled through the gathered kin. Even the torch flames seemed to flicker inward.
"By the Wolfblood," whispered Elder Shika. "That is... the Flame-Wrought's crest. It was thought legend."
Rahu, who had descended the mountain with Jackie, spoke now. "I saw it with my own eyes. The spirit of the Ancient King appeared before us. Wreathed in fire and storm. Jackie met him, not with blades, but with flame—and heart."
Rohun's ancient eyes locked with Jackie's. "And what did he say?"
Jackie shook his head. "His tongue was lost to time. But his meaning wasn't. He tested me. Judged me. And then he gave this."
He held up the fragment.
Rohun reached forward slowly and laid a trembling hand upon Jackie's chest. "You carry more than blood now, boy. You carry legacy. Spirit. The flame that birthed our line has not forsaken us. It has chosen you to rekindle it."
A murmur of voices, not fearful but solemn, filled the square. The crowd parted to allow Jackie to pass toward the central fire-pit.
He knelt before it, cradled the crown fragment, and placed it into the flame.
The fire flared high—brilliant gold, brighter than any had seen since the founding rites. Sparks leapt upward, dancing into the sky like fireflies. No one dared move.
Then Jackie stood, his eyes glowing faintly orange, and let out a long breath—slow, measured, the very breathing technique the hermit had taught him. The flame calmed at once.
Control. Harmony.
He turned to face the crowd, his voice ringing with quiet conviction. "This is not the end of the prophecy. It is the beginning. The Ancients have stirred. The Karus plot in the shadows. We must be ready."
Whispers grew in intensity. Some clutched their talismans. Others nodded grimly.
Yara stepped beside him, placing her hand gently in his. No words needed.
That night, after the rites were completed and the fire died down, Jackie sat alone at the edge of the hill, watching the comet's faded trail shimmer across the stars. The sky was alive with new constellations, rearranged by fate's hand. Somewhere, he imagined, the spirit of the king still watched.
He clutched the Heartstone, which now pulsed in concert with the wolf-tattoo on his shoulder. A new warmth flooded him, steady and soothing—not a burst of fury, but a hearthfire's strength.
He had become more than heir. More than fighter.
He had become the symbol.
The Wolf. The Flame. The bridge between Ancients and mortals.
Later That Night...
Dreams took him.
But not ordinary ones.
In the dream, Jackie stood in a sea of black stone under a burning red sky. Shadows circled him—some man-shaped, some bestial. And then, from the haze, a great wolf padded forward, white as starlight, eyes burning with blue fire.
"You have been seen," the spirit said, voice like wind and thunder. "Chosen, but not yet crowned. The trials will deepen. The fire will test more than flesh. It will test love. Loyalty. Soul."
Jackie reached toward it. "What must I do?"
The wolf bared its teeth—not in menace, but warning.
"Hold to truth. Or all burns."
The dream shattered.
Jackie woke drenched in sweat, the Heartstone glowing brighter than it ever had.
He sat up, the whisper still in his ears, the fire still in his veins.
"Hold to truth. Or all burns."
And somewhere, far beyond the hills, a Karus war chief laughed in the dark—because he, too, had seen the comet.
And unlike Jackie, he would answer it with blood.
End of Chapter 39