The village feasted on the boar. Fires roared, children laughed, and Dagan's voice rose loudest, turning his stumble into a tale of courage. Kael sat at the edge of the light, silent. No one asked for his version. Only Haron's eyes lingered on him before the night ended.
When the village slept, Kael slipped into the Ashwood Vale. Mist clung to the ground, the trees pressing close. The pulse inside him stirred, sharper here, beating in time with his steps.
A growl split the dark. Two yellow eyes gleamed ahead.
The wolf crept forward, ribs sharp under its hide, hunger in every movement. Kael gripped his spear, scanning the ground. His eyes caught a hollow between thick roots. A chance.
The beast lunged. Kael shifted aside, guiding it past him. He let his shoulders sag, feigned weakness, and drew it toward the trap. The pulse inside him quickened, spreading warmth through his arms and chest, steadying his grip.
The wolf rushed again. Its paw caught in the roots. It stumbled, and Kael drove his spear into its shoulder. The beast howled, thrashing. Its strength was wild, snapping the shaft back and forth. For a moment Kael's arms trembled, about to give way.
Then the pulse surged. Heat coursed through his muscles, strength he did not know he had tightening in his grip. He planted his feet, teeth bared, and forced the spear deeper. The wolf snapped inches from his face, jaws clashing shut on empty air. Kael twisted the shaft, driving with body and breath as one.
The beast bucked once, then collapsed, the last growl fading into silence.
Kael staggered back, chest heaving, arms shaking with strain. The spear dripped red, but the pulse still throbbed inside him, steady and alive. It had lent him power. It had kept him standing when he should have fallen.
By dawn he was back in the village. Dagan sprawled snoring by the pit, mouth open in careless pride. Kael walked past without a glance, eyes fixed east on the shadowed line of trees.
The wolf's death lingered with him. Not the blood, not the weight of its body, but the memory of the moment when his strength should have failed. His arms had trembled, his grip had been ready to break, yet the pulse had surged through him, steady and fierce, as if another will had fused with his own.
The Vale had tested him. Wit had guided his strike, strength had driven it home. And both had come from the pulse that was now his to claim.