Khar'Ragar (the Hunter's Call).
The rain had ended two months earlier. The beastkin tribe had returned to ordinary life. On the platforms they once again dried meat, mended nets, sharpened spears—life moved as it always did after months of rain.
On the upper platform stood Ghislaine. She looked down, where under the shadow of the trees the traces of past floods still marked the ground. The skin on her arms was dry, covered in old scars, her ear twitching faintly as it caught the distant thumps below. Cries of hunters returning with their prey drifted upward.
She didn't move and simply watched. Two months without rain felt like a peace they didn't deserve. The swamp had retreated, but with it went the familiar struggle and the wild joy she loved.
Ghislaine turned, picked up her broad sword. The hilt was carved from the bone of an especially large swamp skira, smooth and sturdy. The blade itself was short but wide, capable of cutting flesh and bone in one strike. Shallow grooves ran along its spine so her grip wouldn't slip in the rain.
In agile leaps she moved between trees, heading toward the open space where much of the tribe had already gathered. They stood in a semicircle, speaking quietly, alertly. On the far side stood a tent adorned with carved marks and symbols—the tent of Ashai.
On the square stood eight beastkin.
All were between fourteen and sixteen—junior hunters, same as she. The Sa'drin season—the season of rain—had ended, and now each was preparing for the hunt that would make them full hunters of the tribe. Today Ghislaine stood among them.
She walked forward, passed the crowd, and approached.
When she arrived, eyes immediately turned to her. Everyone knew who she was, and not only because she was the chief's daughter. Her wild and brutal nature, even by beastkin standards, was known throughout the tribe.
Many avoided her, and during sparring or drills no one wanted to be paired with her. Though she was only twelve, none dared speak a word against her.
"Ghislaine," one of the elders said quietly, stepping forward. "You came for the call as well?"
"Did you think I'd just sit and watch?" she answered calmly, her expression unchanged.
A few exchanged glances. In their eyes flickered tension—a mix of respect and unease. One of them forced a grin, trying to hide his discomfort.
"Just don't start fighting us before the hunt even begins," he said, half joking.
"No promises," she said.
A short laugh rippled through the group, but no one dared reply. The tension stayed, and in their eyes lingered readiness—each waited to see what she would say or do.
"Where's your brother, Ghislaine?" someone beside her asked. "He's already fourteen. Why isn't he here with us? Did the chief forbid him? Or decide he wouldn't handle it?"
Ghislaine turned to him slowly. Her gaze grew heavy, direct. She didn't blink, staring straight into his eyes. He held it, but his fingers tightened on the spear shaft, muscles tensing.
"I don't spread rumors," she said quietly, with a faint smirk. "Leave that to those who can't hold a weapon."
The crowd fell silent for an instant. He looked away first.
They waited a while longer until Ashai stepped out of the tent.
She wore ritual garments—bands covering chest and groin, leaving her stomach, back, and most of her legs bare. In the dim light her skin looked damp; scars and rune-marks traced her shoulders. Small skulls hung from her belt, clinking as she walked. In her hands she held a staff with a forked, branchlike tip. On her head sat the domed skull of a deerlike creature with black curved horns. Pale eyes looked out through the skull's sockets.
She stepped forward and stopped before the young hunters. Her voice was raspy and low, without excess intonation.
"Young ones," Ashai said. "Today you cease to be children. The forest waits for those who are worthy. Those who are weak—it will swallow. Those who lie to themselves—will not return. Those who fear—will die."
Each word carried force, and no one dared move. Ashai studied their faces carefully, searching for fear or doubt.
"This day decides who becomes a hunter, and who becomes feed," she said, lifting a hand. Her claws glinted. "Let the first enter."
Ashai gestured sharply, calling forward the first of the young hunters.
He stepped out confidently, head raised. His movements were calm, without tremor. When he approached, Ashai lowered her clawed hand onto his back and guided him gently toward the tent. They vanished inside as the hides fell, blocking the view.
Time passed, and the line grew shorter. Those who entered emerged with ritual markings on their bodies and a small bag slung over their shoulders. They didn't linger—each walked away from the tribe, disappearing into the forest. One after another until finally Ghislaine's turn came.
She approached the tent, lifted the heavy hides, and stepped in.
Thick smoke from swamp flowers hit her nose—soothing and syrupy, the kind shamans used for meditation. The tent was saturated with it, thin trails curling up from silver censers clearly taken as trophies in raids against the Theocracy.
"A-ah... fierce Ghislaine," Ashai rasped. "I've waited for the day you would come to me at last, and here it is. Sit."
She pointed to the place directly before her.
Ghislaine stepped forward confidently and sat, legs folded. She laid the sword before her, blade turned toward herself as custom required.
"You know why you've come?" Ashai asked, peering at her through the deer skull's slits.
"I know," Ghislaine said. "Today I receive my mark and leave."
"You'll leave if the spirit allows," Ashai said calmly. "Many wished to, but not all returned."
Ghislaine didn't look away.
"I will return," she said quietly. "And bring back what no one ever has."
Ashai tilted her head slightly, her claws scraping softly along the staff.
"We shall see," she said, with a faint chuckle. "Show your hands."
Ghislaine offered them. They were rough and calloused, covered in small scars and traces of old fractures. Some bones had healed unevenly, but it didn't hinder her. Ashai took a bowl beside her, dipped her bluish fingers in, and began tracing lines, drawing patterns on Ghislaine's skin.
Her rasping voice sounded again as she worked:
"Have you already chosen your hunt? Or will you leave the decision to me?"
"The Mist Shavra," Ghislaine replied confidently, lifting her chin.
Ashai let out a long, low "oooh," as if weighing the answer.
The Mist Shavra was a tree predator that struck from above almost without sound. Usually one only noticed it when it was already too late—its body blended into fog.
Long and slender, gray-olive, patterned with spots and stripes that vanished into foliage. On its wrist grew a bone hook used to cling to branches and bodies, piercing straight through.
Its jaws snapped shut like scissors, and one bite was enough for a beastkin to lose a limb. Its saliva wasn't venomous, but caused convulsions, as if joints twisted from the inside.
Those who survived said the pain lasted for hours.
It was a serious and dangerous foe. Even adult hunters did not always prevail.
Ashai continued calmly, watching Ghislaine, her fingers moving—lines extending across her torso, along her collarbones and chest, stretching to her shoulders.
"A serious foe," she said. "Are you certain of your choice? I can withdraw it and give another if I decide young blood won't manage."
Her tone held no threat, but Ghislaine felt the test in it.
Inside her rose a familiar tension, the kind that always came when her strength was challenged. She knew Ashai wasn't saying this idly. Any hesitation could stain her name. She wanted to answer at once, loudly, but held herself back. Her breath deepened, her shoulders tightened slightly, and her gaze hardened.
"It leaves marks on trees," Ghislaine said. "Paired, U-shaped grips in the bark, at chest or head height for a beastkin. Diagonal. Its droppings are rare, dense, with bone grit—usually under the underside of branches, clinging at an angle. When a Shavra is near, the night insects and the chirring vanish. Only rustling and fog remain. The smell—light burnt fur mixed with wet bark. From its scales rubbing against branches..."
Ashai nodded, letting out a dry chuckle.
"You've listened well to my lessons," she said. "But why tell me this?"
"Because I'm not just young blood," Ghislaine said, straightening. "I'm the best in the tribe. Faster, stronger, tougher. I see sooner, hear farther, and I don't fear killing. I have no equal!"
Her words rang with certainty, without shame or a need to impress. She truly believed them. Ashai snorted softly, shaking her head.
"Loud words, young blood," she said with mild mockery.
Ghislaine didn't fall silent. She lifted her hand and pointed to her right eye covered by a band.
"I have this," she said firmly.
Ashai frowned and shook her head.
"Don't stake everything on it," she said calmly. "Bariah didn't bless you with that at birth so you could flaunt the gift."
They fell quiet. Ashai drew a long breath and looked aside.
"I approve your choice," she said at last. "You have eight days. In that time you must find the Shavra and bring back its sign."
She leaned forward, claws pressing lightly into the floor.
"Remember the rules," Ashai said more sternly. "You go alone. No one may help you—neither word nor deed. If anyone interferes, the hunt is shamed and you lose the right to call yourself a hunter."
Ghislaine nodded, accepting the words without argument.
Ashai continued the markings, drawing lines on her face and around her eyes, connecting symbols on forehead and cheeks. These patterns were the sign of the rite. Any beastkin seeing them knew: a ritual hunt was underway. One could not help, hinder, or even interfere with the hunter's path. Any involvement was considered a violation of Bariah's will.
When the drawing was complete, she handed her a small bag.
"Take it. Same as the others," Ashai said.
Inside lay wraps, salve made from ragga slime, and a ritual knife with a short blade. Ghislaine nodded and headed toward the exit. As she lifted the hides, Ashai's voice sounded behind her.
"Return safely," she said quietly.
Ghislaine paused for a moment, turning her head. Her gaze was calm.
"I'll return..." she said softly. "...mother."
The hides fell closed behind her.