The journey back to the Volx's hidden sanctuary was swift, the elder moving with practiced ease through the tangled undergrowth.
The child, cradled in his arms, did not cry or whimper. His golden-flecked eyes remained wide open, as if observing the world with an understanding far beyond his age.
By the time they reached the entrance to their territory, dawn had begun to creep over the horizon, casting long shadows across the dense woodland.
The settlement of the Volx was hidden deep within a massive clearing, its homes built into the very trees and cliffs of the jungle.
Suspended walkways stretched between ancient branches, leading to platforms where huts of woven leaves and hardened clay stood in defiance of the world that had abandoned them.
As the elder stepped into the main square, the early risers of the tribe turned their heads in curiosity.
They had expected him to return with food, not a child. A few hunters, still skinning the night's catch, paused, glancing at one another before breaking into murmurs.
A burly man with jagged scars running down his arms and a boar's tusk necklace around his neck was the first to speak.
"Chief Varek, you went out to find meat, not to steal someone's spawn."
Another, a woman with piercing green eyes, chuckled. "Don't tell me you've taken a liking to younger prey, old man. You've been gone too long!"
The small crowd erupted in laughter, their voices light-hearted but edged with genuine confusion.
Varek merely sighed, shaking his head. "You fools. Have some respect. This child was abandoned in the jungle, left to be devoured by beasts."
The laughter died down at that. The Volx, despite their rough nature, understood the weight of abandonment.
They themselves had been cast out, deemed unworthy by the great clans of Rainin. A baby left to die in the Jungle of Zun'kai was no laughing matter.
One of the younger warriors stepped forward, peering at the child in Varek's arms. "He reeks of them," she murmured. "His blood is not ours."
A shift of unease spread through the onlookers. The clans of Rainin had long been their enemies, their oppressors.
The idea of taking in one of their own was unthinkable.
Varek raised a hand, silencing their murmurs. "I know whose blood he carries," he said. "I know the mark he bears. This child… he is the Omen-born."
A hush fell over the gathering. Eyes widened, breaths caught in throats. For a long moment, only the distant sounds of the jungle filled the silence.
Then came the shouts.
"Impossible!"
"An Omen-child, here? With us?"
"Have you lost your mind, Varek? That boy is cursed! His birth brought death, even to his own kin!"
"He is not ours to keep!"
The protests grew louder, some stepping forward, demanding that the child be cast back into the wild where he belonged.
Others simply shook their heads in disbelief, unwilling to even entertain such a notion.
Varek remained still, allowing them their outburst. When he finally spoke again, his voice carried the weight of command.
"Do you take me for a fool?" he growled. "You think I would bring a curse upon our people so carelessly?"
The crowd quieted, waiting.
"This boy," Varek continued, "was not left to die by chance. He was abandoned out of fear.
His own kin, the High Clan, sought to erase him before he could even draw his first breath.
And yet, the jungle did not take him. The beasts did not feast upon him. He was untouched, as if shielded by the gods themselves."
A murmur of intrigue replaced the shouts of anger. The Volx were a people who believed in fate, in signs and omens.
The idea that this child had been chosen, that the jungle itself had refused to claim him, unsettled them.
The same warrior who had spoken earlier hesitated before asking, "You believe he was spared for a reason?"
Varek nodded. "I do." He looked down at the boy, who still gazed up at him in silence. "The gods have marked him, just as they once marked our ancestors before we were cast aside. Perhaps his fate is tied to ours."
The tribe fell into contemplation. Some still held their skepticism, while others exchanged glances, curiosity overtaking fear.
One of the elder women, her face wrinkled with time, stepped forward. "If what you say is true," she said carefully, "then we must decide what is to be done with him.
Even an Omen-child needs care, and food does not fall from the sky."
Varek turned to the gathered crowd, his expression firm. "Then let us decide," he said. "Who among you will take the boy and raise him as one of our own?"
Silence.
No one stepped forward. Taking in a child was a heavy burden, especially one who carried the blood of their oppressors.
Then, a voice broke the quiet. "I will."
The people turned to see a woman standing at the edge of the crowd. She was young, barely past her second decade, with short, dark hair and fierce eyes.
Her name was Liora, a huntress known for her skill in taming wild creatures.
"You would take him?" Varek asked.
She nodded. "If the gods have chosen him, then I will see that he lives to fulfill their will. He will be raised as Volx, not as one of them."
Varek studied her for a long moment, then nodded. "So be it."
Liora stepped forward, reaching out for the child. As soon as she held him, a strange stillness fell over the clearing.
The golden flecks in his dark eyes seemed to catch the rising sun, glowing briefly before dimming again.
The people watched, uneasy yet fascinated.
"A child of fate," someone murmured.
"A child of the gods," another whispered.
And so, the Omen-born was given a home among the outcasts.
He was no longer a son of Rainin.
He was now Volx.