Kiran.
The name still felt foreign on his tongue. It was his now—given, not stolen. Yet, as he stood among the Volx, staring at the lifeless jungle stalker he had slain, he knew that a name alone would not change everything.
The gathered warriors eyed him in silence, their expressions unreadable. Some, like Elder Zurak, seemed satisfied. Others—like Roga—held back, their arms crossed, their gazes sharp with doubt.
Then, the silence broke.
"He got lucky," Roga muttered, loud enough for all to hear. "A real hunter would've killed the beast cleanly, not struggled like a wounded cub."
Murmurs spread through the crowd. Kiran tightened his grip on his blade. The wound on his shoulder still ached from the fight, but he forced himself to stand tall.
Zurak's gaze darkened as he turned to Roga. "You question the jungle's judgment?"
Roga's jaw tightened, but he said nothing.
Zurak then turned to Kiran, studying him with those ancient eyes. "You have earned your place, but a name is only the first step." His voice, deep and steady, carried across the fire-lit gathering. "A Volx warrior is not made in a single hunt. You must continue to prove yourself."
The weight of those words settled over Kiran like a heavy cloak.
The trial was over, but his battle for acceptance had just begun.
Doubt and Expectation
The feast that followed should have been a celebration. Meat sizzled over the fire, the rich scent of roasted game filling the night air. Warriors laughed and boasted about their own hunts, sharing stories of past glories.
But Kiran felt the weight of every glance thrown his way.
He sat at the edge of the gathering, tearing into his food in silence. Across from him, a few younger warriors whispered, occasionally glancing in his direction.
"Did you see how he fought?" one murmured.
"He barely survived," another scoffed.
Kiran forced himself to keep eating. He had survived. That was all that mattered.
Or was it?
Elder Zurak's words echoed in his mind. A name is only the first step.
He had fought for survival his entire life. But now, he needed to fight for something else—his place.
The First Challenge
The next morning, the camp buzzed with activity. Warriors prepared for the day's hunt, sharpening their blades and checking their bows.
Kiran awoke early, determined not to be left behind.
As he approached the hunters, a voice stopped him.
"You think you can just walk with us?"
Roga.
He stood with his hunting party, arms crossed, a smirk playing on his lips. "One lucky hunt doesn't make you a warrior."
Kiran met his gaze without flinching. "Then I'll prove it again."
The other hunters exchanged looks. Some seemed amused. Others wary.
Roga scoffed. "Fine. Let's see if you can keep up."
The hunters moved swiftly through the jungle, their footsteps near silent. Kiran followed, his senses alert. The thick canopy overhead allowed only slivers of sunlight to pierce through, casting eerie shadows on the forest floor.
Hours passed, the jungle alive with the calls of unseen creatures.
Then, the lead hunter raised his hand—a signal to stop.
Up ahead, a group of wild boars grazed near a stream.
Roga crouched beside Kiran. "Think you're ready, outsider?" he whispered.
Kiran ignored him, gripping his blade. He had no bow, no spear—only the knife he had used to kill the jungle stalker.
The hunters spread out, moving into position. Roga nocked an arrow, his expression smug. Kiran knew what he was waiting for—his failure.
He wouldn't give him that satisfaction.
Kiran moved carefully, his eyes locked on a smaller boar near the edge of the herd. He gripped his knife tightly and crept forward.
One mistake—one snap of a twig—and the hunt would be over.
The tension in the air thickened. The moment to strike was now.
Kiran lunged.