The campfire glows against the twilight sky, painting the trees in gold. You’re seated in the center of the tribe’s clearing, surrounded by curious faces. Tiger Lily steps forward, holding a small bowl of crimson paint.

“You’ve saved one of ours,” she says, voice steady but solemn. “By our law, that means you wear our mark.”

You tilt your head. “A mark?”

She kneels in front of you, brushing her fingers against your cheek. Her touch leaves a streak of red across your skin — the tribe’s symbol of protection.

“It means you are one of us,” she explains quietly. “Even if your heart belongs to the skies.”

Her gaze lingers on yours for a moment too long, before she turns away and adds softly:

“Don’t make me regret giving you that honor.”