The Ceremony of the Forest Gift
Years slipped through Lioren's fingers like silver dust, and on the eve of his tenth birthday, a shift thrummed through the crisp autumn air. He and Aelira walked the moss‑lined lane toward Ilyareth's outskirts, where the ancient rite awaited: the Ceremony of the Forest Gift. Lanterns of living glow‑slime bobbed overhead, casting emerald halos on stalls of woven reeds. The scent of spiced cider mingled with woodsmoke and the sharp tang of fallen leaves underfoot.
A charred stump loomed before them—a relic of a past Sunfire Warden's misstep. Scorch marks curled into the earth, warning of power uncontrolled. A stray dog yapped, hackles raised, before retreating into the shadows.
"Stay close," Aelira murmured, her shawl of silver‑thyme blossoms whispering in the breeze. "Listen for the forest's hush—and trust your heart."
He pressed his knuckles to his chest, the warmth of last night's cider still on his tongue. Doubt stirred, but he straightened his shoulders, tasting peppermint and dew.
The crowd ahead swelled: leather boots scuffed on leaves, merchants' tunics snagged on stray roots, an elder pressing a trembling hand to a child's mouth. High above, the Grand Oak's boughs framed the clearing like ancient sentinels.
High Druidess Rowaa stepped into view, silver hair braided with ivy. Her voice rang clear: "Place your hands upon the Grand Oak. Hear its ancient song, and be bound to your gift."
One by one, they moved. Daro, his knuckle‑scar twitching with pride, pressed his palm to the oak. The bark shivered beneath his touch, runes along its trunk glowing sapphire in time with his pulse. A swirl of light coalesced around his chest, and he laughed—triumphant and relieved—as the *Alchemist* ribbon found him.
Mira approached next, absently braiding a loose strand of hair. Her mud‑streaked palm met the oak, crimson sparks dancing across the bark. Her *Blade‑Dancer* ribbon snapped into place, and she offered Lioren a fierce nod.
Ansel shuffled forward, humming an ancient herbal tune. As his fingers flattened on the oak, golden runes bloomed in its bark. The *Herb‑Warden* ribbon drifted to his side, and he bowed so low leaves brushed his forehead.
Now it was Lioren's turn. His secret rune burned in his mind—stolen from a forbidden grimoire. He swallowed and laid his palm on the oak. At first, only the weight of two dozen hands pressed beside his. Then the oak responded: its runes pulsing in cadence with his heartbeat, each throb echoing through his veins.
Magic tugged at his blood. His vision clouded. He felt his fingertips smolder; ivory sparks leapt, and a jolt of heat flared across his wrist. He jerked away, breath catching in his throat. Faces blurred, concern flashing in Daro's eyes.
Clenching his jaw, Lioren pressed back. He closed his eyes and whispered the ancient word. A ribbon of moon‑silver fire burst forth, flame‑soft, weaving around his arm before settling into pale gold threaded with living vine motifs. Its glow warmed his skin even as a burn bloomed red on his wrist.
The clearing fell silent—every ribbon-blessed child a mosaic of color beneath the oak's canopy, yet none matched Lioren's luminescent gold.
High Druidess Rowaa's voice broke the hush: "Sunfire Warden—and One with the Nature. A union of flame and leaf, forgotten in living memory."
Aelira's hand closed over Lioren's. He winced, pressing his thumb to the burn, tasting copper on his tongue as it throbbed. Across the circle, Daro took a half-step forward; Mira's braid quivered; Ansel's breath hitched in concern.
Rowaa raised her arms: "Ten days of trials begin at dusk. The outer glade welcomes you; beyond lies the heart of the Enchanted Wood, where spirits and beasts test your mettle. Trust your ribbon's flame—but do not let it consume you."
A murmur rippled through the crowd: a parent whispered of children lost beyond the briar‑thorn glade; another warned of spectral lantern‑bearers luring wanderers into perpetual night.
Before the forest's edge, Lioren and his companions shared a silent vow, linking elbows in solidarity. Daro pressed a small leather flask into Lioren's hand. "For burns," he whispered. Mira offered a shared smile, and Ansel gently tucked a charm of bone and bark into Lioren's satchel.
He inhaled the cooling air, the sweet memory of cider fading as the scent of phosphorescent fungi and damp rot rose. Distant claws rasped against bark in a sound that curled ice up his spine.
*Trust your flame, but don't let it burn you,* he reminded himself.
With joined hearts and trembling hope, they stepped beneath the ancient boughs.
The forest exhaled.
The Ceremony had truly begun.