Fire

The land is cloaked with the weight of the night. Silence eats deep into the chirping melodies of crickets and the haunting choruses of yipping coyotes. As moonlight sieve through the stained-glass window of the shrine, the bare-bodied masculine figure kneeling in the circle of red wolf-shaped candles coughs as he strains in the direction of the clawed statues.

His eyes are clouded by the weak smoke from the burning candles and their pungent scent battles with the hairs of his nostrils. Still, his eyes are transfixed on the statues. This time, a silhouette with a flowing hooded robe sneaks out of the tiny wooden chamber beside the statues.

“The night is young, dear heir,” a coarse baritone stabs the air.

The figure keeps mute and stares while the silhouette makes it to the faint glow of the candlelight—a bone candle holder to its left and a blood offering bowl to its right.

“The moon goddess is a mother to all Lycans,” the voice erupts again, firmer this time. “But only she chooses which moon cycle to tweak the destiny of a Lycan who is fated for less.”

“I-I-I don't think it sounds humane to be condemned for less,” the figure aired his disagreement.

The silhouette makes a sharp turn. “Every Lycan is a star—but what's the place of cosmic stability if all stars shine alike?”

The figure said.

“On full moon nights like this, unchaining souls is easier but comes with a prize.”

“One that can't be afforded?” he asked deeper.

The silhouette would grab a lone white candle and waltz ahead, saying less.

“Whatever the prize. The King said it can be done,” the figure says, furrowing his brows as the silhouette gets to the edge of the crooked chalk circle guiding the positions of the candles.

The silhouette surrendered the blood offering bowl to the floor and lit up the only unlit candle in the circle. It was black and stood out from the rest. Turning to the figure, “there are limitations to his authority just like there are dimensions to his powers as a Lycan King.”

A weak breeze bashes into the shrine and wrestles the strength of the candle flames. They'd flicker and tussle but keep their flames blue and firm.

Nodding to the candles, “the power of the resistance of the candle flames to the West wind holds a magnificent message,” the silhouette says, finally taking off the hood that concealed its head.

“An unshaken resistance is a good sign.” Now the silhouette’s face is fully lit up by the glow from the candles. He's a seer; an old man with a face wrapped in wrinkles and tiny eyes coated in red vein linings. His gray mustache folds to the side whenever his lips expose his set of distorted teeth—ones with different shades of gray and cream like fine pebbles on the bank of a lake.

He nods to the kneeling figure, motioning for him to take to his feet. “But even bad destinies sometimes carry good signs,” the seer says, stretching his hands for the figure to grab.

Leading him out of the circle, one step at a time, “Outside this circle and the aura of these candle flames lies your fears. Your response to them determines your fate as an heir to the Lycan throne,” the seer admits.

“What if I don't even deserve to be a Lycan King after all?” the figure says, his face contorted in a bitter frown.

The seer turns to him sharply. “Our lives are an embodiment of our choices. As an heir to the Lycan throne, this is a choice you can't boycott.”

Silence will breathe between them as the seer guides him ahead. Before them is an animal hide stretched over a wooden frame. It has a fixed dial in the middle with several ancient markings adorning its edges. The heir looks in silence, cutting blank stares across the corners of the shrine.

“Look here,” the seer says, pointing to the object. “the moon chart,” he looks over his shoulder.

“W-w-w-hat is…”

“It holds the fate of every Lycan ritual,” the seer says.

“Including mine?”

“Especially yours.”

He pulls a knife and traces the direction of the pendulum-like dial of the chart slowly and carefully as if the world would end if he missed a step. The figure watches in awe, not getting a hang of what he is doing.

He turns behind. “With a drop of your blood—it keeps your fate open like the pages of an ancient scroll.”

“What does it hold?”

The seer pulls a sly grin. “Your ascension and the trials that put it to test.”

Perturbed. “Trials that put it to test?”

The seer nods. “Nothing’s fair. Your possession of the throne wouldn't be an exception.”

His brows furrowed. “Is it even worth it?” he stammered. “I could walk away from all of these—the throne, the trials, the feasts…all of it and still live a proud Lycan.”

Grabbing a knife. “That’s a making of your imagination…but that's not how it's done,” says the seer. He'd nod to the figure’s hand and then the blood-offering bowl lying right before him. “Your thumb. I need just a prick but it might hurt a little.”

His eyes caked in worry and doubt, he trained his hand. “You’re sure about this?”

“The fate of our kingdom depends on this.”

The figure watches with keen interest as the seer murmurs gibberish and spins in circles, making random markings on the sandy floor with just the tip of his toe. He'd suspend the bowl holding the blood he weaned from the figure above the moon chart until a drop would drip down into the middle of it, right adjacent to some of the markings at the edge of the chart.

The figure watches in silence while the seer drops the blood bowl and remains in a trance-like state for a couple of minutes.

“Your trials are clear but way too unique,” the seer opens up.

“What do I expect, wise one?” he asked.

Turning to him sharply. “You choose what to expect,” the seer announces.

Dead-pan silence.

The seer points to a wooden canvas clamped to the world. It's like a three-dimensional painting divided into four compartments with each carrying a sign enclosed in a double circle—a small circle enclosed by a bigger one.

“It’s called the elements chart. It holds the four elements Lycan heirs pick from when the moon goddess insists that they decide their fate.” He points to the chart again. “Every compartment holds a unique element: Fire. Wolfsbane. Silver. Blood.”

Confused. “What do they signify?” the figure asked.

“It’s sacred. You can only know after you settle for one of them.”

“So, how do I…”

“That’s what makes you a Lycan heir. Listen to your heart.”

After a soul-searching spree, the figure nods to the chart, unsure of his choice but all out to settle for something.

“Touch it,” the seer grumbled.

He touches the second compartment on the right. The seer motioned for him to drift out of the circle and then unwrap the piece of black linen off his left wrist.

“Wolfsbane is weakness. It saps your strength and makes you porous. Silver is invasion. It challenges your bravery and stirs up the beast of fear in you. Blood is victory. It marks the expansion of your power.”

He'd turn to the last compartment and look at the figure again. “Fire is loss. It'd take with it a part of you that'd make you incomplete till your very last breath.”

Another silence.

“You chose fire and I hope you'll withstand the blow of this trial when it strikes.”

“What will it look like?”

“Nobody ever knows.”

“When is it coming?”

The seer chuckled. “Could come at the speed of lightning or the pace of a Northern invasion.”

The male figure was about to ask a couple of more questions when the sound outside the shrine startled them both.

It's the city alarm. Only one thing would make it ring: Chaos.

“There comes the fire!”