Chapter 116: Chapter 116: Gathering At Square The next day came not with a bang, but with an unexpected quiet energy. Sol woke up to the smell of rich broth and the sound of hushed movement. He blinked, expecting the usual chaos of the morning rush, but the hut was orderly. Lyra and the girls were already awake, moving with a synchronized efficiency. They were busy sorting and storing the massive haul of ingredients they had accumulated over the past few days... hanging dried meats, packing herbs into clay jars, and organizing the valuable furs. Lyra was at the fire pit, stirring a pot that smelled divine. She was cooking the snake meat according to his soup recipe... searing the dense white flesh first, then letting it simmer with the chilies and the salty marsh-grass. Seeing him sit up, Lyra turned. She forced a bright smile onto her face, but it didn’t quite reach her eyes. "Sol," she greeted him softly. "You are up. Hurry and freshen up. The soup is already ready. You need to eat." Sol rubbed the sleep from his eyes, swinging his legs out of the furs. "Morning." He looked around the room. Arelia was braiding a leather cord. Veyra was sharpening a small stone knife with intense, rhythmic strokes. Liora was sitting by the wall, hugging her knees. When they turned to look at him, their expressions faltered. Even though they tried hard to mask it, the somberness was etched into their faces. Arelia’s eyes were tight with worry. Veyra looked angry, her jaw set. Liora looked like she was about to cry. Sol was confused for a split second, the fog of sleep still clinging to his mind. Why the funeral mood? Then, the realization hit him like a bucket of ice water. Today was the Annual Hunting Rite. His mind cleared instantly. Today was the day he walked into the jungle not to gather, but to kill. He stood up, stretching his arms, feeling the coiled power of the Ash Gray energy humming in his chest... fully recharged, potent, and waiting. He flashed them an energetic, confident smile that he hoped would chase away the shadows in the room. "Okay," Sol said, his voice firm. "Let’s eat. I have a big day ahead of me." ... The heavy silence in the room didn’t break as Sol sat down; it only seemed to thicken, swirling around them like smoke. Lyra ladled the stew into a wooden bowl and placed it before him. The aroma was intoxicating... the sharp, nose-tingling heat of the fire-berries (correct name for chili in tribe) cutting through the rich, gamey scent of the predator meat. Sol took a bite. The flavor was explosive. The snake meat wasn’t stringy like the rat-meat they usually ate; it was dense, tearing apart with a satisfying resistance before melting on his tongue. But more than the taste, it was the energy. As he swallowed, he felt a warm, thrumming current slide down his throat and radiate outward into his limbs. It wasn’t just digestion; it was assimilation. He was pleasantly surprised by it. ’High-grade protein,’ Sol noted, feeling his blood heat up. ’My body is absorbing this with terrifying efficiency. It’s craving fuel for the Rite.’ "It’s good," Sol said, breaking the silence. He looked at Lyra. "You have a gift, Aunt. Even with simple herbs, you make this taste better than mine." Lyra offered a weak, trembling smile. She wasn’t eating. None of them were. They were just watching him, as if memorizing his face. "Sol," Lyra’s voice cracked. She reached across the low table, gripping his hand tight. Her palms were calloused but warm. "Listen to me. The Rite... it is not about glory. Not for us. It is about returning." She squeezed his hand, her eyes pleading. "You don’t need to bring back a beast. You don’t need to impress the Elders or shut up the mockers. Just... stay on the perimeter. Find a hiding spot. Wait for the sun to set. Please." "She’s right," Arelia piped up, her voice small. "If you see a beast, run. Don’t try to be brave." Sol chewed slowly, swallowing the concern along with the meat. To them, he was still Sol the Cripple, the boy who needed protecting. They didn’t know about the Ash-Grey energy coiling in his gut, or the Vitality he had siphoned from Evara that made his muscles feel like compressed springs. "I know," Sol lied softly, squeezing Lyra’s hand back. "I’ll be careful. I’m blessed by the ancestors, remember?" Veyra, who had been silent, suddenly stood up. She walked over to him, her expression stony. She held out the object she had been working on... a bone dagger. It was made from the femur of a large deer, ground down against a river stone until the point was needle-sharp. She had wrapped the handle in rough leather for a better grip. "Take it," she said, thrusting it at him. Sol took the weapon. It was light, balanced, and wicked. "I found it in the trash." Veyra said, refusing to meet his eyes, staring instead at the wall. "It’s better than that rotting wood spear you use. If... if something gets close..." She swallowed hard, her mask of anger slipping for a second to reveal terrified affection. "Aim for the eyes. Or the throat. Don’t hesitate." Sol looked at the dagger, then at Veyra. He tucked the weapon into his belt. "I won’t hesitate." He finished the last of the broth, tipping the bowl back to drink the spicy dregs. He felt surcharged. The snake meat, combined with the lingering effects of the previous day, made his skin feel tight, his senses dialing up to maximum sharpness. He could hear the wind rustling the thatch roof. He could smell the iron in the blood of the raw meat hanging in the corner. He stood up. "I have to go," he said. "The horn will sound soon." Liora scrambled up from the floor and wrapped her arms around his waist, burying her face in his stomach. She didn’t say anything, just held on with a desperate strength. Sol patted her hair, waiting until she let go, then nodded once to these women who are his only family in this strange world.. "I’ll be back for dinner," he promised. "Keep the fire hot." With that, he grabbed his makeshift spear and stepped out of the hut. The transition was jarring. Inside, the air had been warm and thick with emotion. Outside, the morning air was crisp and cold. The village was alive, but it wasn’t the usual chaotic bustle of trade. It was the focused, grim atmosphere of war. Men and women were streaming toward the Village Square. They were painted in the colors of their totems... red clay for strength, white ash for stealth, black charcoal for death. Weapons were being checked; stone axe tested, stone axes weighed in hands. Sol joined the flow of the crowd. He kept his head down, adopting his usual slightly hunched posture to avoid drawing attention, but his eyes were darting everywhere, analyzing the crowd. As he neared the center of the square, people looked at him in varying expressions, some curious due to soup, some looking at with a smile, and of course, some with sneers and whispers, especially from the younger generation. "Look, the Waste actually showed up." "Does he think he’s going to hunt horned rabbits?" "He’s just going to feed a raptor and save us a burial." Sol ignored them. The insults washed over him like water off oil. Let them talk. Let them think he was prey. He reached the designated gathering spot for the the younger generation and the weaker members who were participating in their first or second Rite. He leaned against a totem pole, gripping his spear, and waited. Suddenly, a hush fell over the square. From the Chieftain’s longhouse, a group of figures emerged.