She sat on the edge of the village, arms crossed, knees huddled up, and staring off into the distant skies. Staring into the infinite nothingness that was her destiny.

The tribesmen said that when they watched her meditating alone, entranced by some unknown force. They'd heard the stories. They knew she was special. She was marked for something momentous. That was the sole reason a child like her was afforded respect by her fellow hunters and huntresses.

It was also the reason mothers shielded their babes from her sight and retreated into their tents at her passing.

In truth, she wasn't staring blankly at the crimson canvas stretching out above for miles and eventually met the shifting sands at the horizon's edge. No – she was staring at the great tree set into the ground like an entombed blade, hilt up, at the five-meter perimeter of the Hanakh territory above the Great Canyon. The birthing tree.

It was said the antlers of the Great Spirit had touched the dead branches of the sacred tree at the beginning – when the tribe was nothing but Father-Mother and a few trusted confidantes who had escaped the fires the Old Ones set against the world. The Great Spirit had come upon the Hanakh people in their time of exodus and told them they had been guided here for a purpose. He stamped his hooves into the warm, dry earth and proclaimed them the chosen Children of the Wastes – the inheritors of the New World called The Deadlands. Here must they live, and by the Great Spirit's tree must they bare their children. Above, he would watch and calm the mothers of the tribe in their time of agony as they delivered new life into the world.

But he hadn't done this for Rain-Born's mother.

She often thought about this as she looked out at the tree, stretching out her arm and flexing her fingers, imagining the lightning that had struck the tree on the day of her passage from the ethereal Garden of the Great Spirit to the material world. Her mother sacrificed her own life to bring her into this world that day.

And here she sat – a failure and a reject. A girl with no power at all. A girl who didn't even know how to be a part of the tribe she was supposed to belong to naturally.

She clenched her hand into a fist as these thoughts of failure played like an evil song in her brain. She imagined instead the power of the lightning flowing through her veins, down her hand, and into her heart, filling her with its cleansing, killing light.

She'd use it to destroy the Guthra. She'd use it to do what she was born to do. That was what Father-Mother wanted from her. That's what her mother had died for. She had to be what they dreamed she would be.

She dug her nails into the soft skin of her palm till her whole hand shook. She could do it. She could end them all. She just had to be stronger.

Otherwise, how could she meet her mother on the Hunting Grounds of the afterlife? How could she look upon the woman that had borne her for eight months of her life only to have her own life cast aside in favor of her child's?

"The tree is defenseless, child. What has it done to deserve your scorn?"

Rain-Born turned suddenly to meet Ragged-Brow's form towering above her, his stick firmly planted into the dry earth at his feet. She made to rise, but he waved away her attempt.

"Stay seated, child," he said. "Lessons are better absorbed the closer one is to the sands."

He crossed his legs beside her and breathed deeply like he was filling his lungs with completely new air. She double-blinked at him and then returned her attention to the tree. Whatever nonsense he had come here with, she would let it pass in one ear and leave through the other.

"You seem fascinated by the birthing tree."

She nodded. Still, her stare did not waver.

"Why?"

"That's where my mother died," she said.

He nodded at that, slowly, deliberately, and without any judgment attached to the action.

"I killed her," she said.

It had been a sudden admission, and she instantly regretted speaking. She buried her face in her arms as Ragged-Brow cocked one great withered eyebrow at her and studied her still body.

"The Deadlands are harsh," he said after a time, knowing he must say something. "They take life, and they give life. All exist in balance. We are born of the sky, we live on the sands, and one way or another, we return to the dirt."

"The Deadlands did not kill her," Rain-Born said. "I did."

"Child, I did not think you one to wallow in your own dull tears."

Now she did look at him. Defiant. Full of fire. It took all his strength not to strike at her then and there – to remind her he was her Elder, no matter what prophesy she had been born to fulfill.

For her part, she did not quite know what to say. All she had was the fire raging inside her skin and the knowledge that this man was bigger, stronger, and more respected than her. Any fight with him was a fight she could not win.

Yet still, she fought on.

"I will be a warrior," she said, and then drew her bone dagger and slapped it once, full of spite, against her chest. "I will be a warrior for mother, Father-Mother, the Great Spirit, and the Hanakh."

"What about yourself, Rain-Born?"

He asked her the question, even though he knew it was wrong. He was straying from his Path. He was making her stray from her own.

By the odd way, she cocked her head and just stared back at him; he saw that she knew it, too.

"I was born to be a warrior. I must be a warrior."

"You were born because your mother loved your father, and they both wanted to bring a life – a living symbol of the love they shared – into this world. Nothing more."

He gritted his teeth in the face of her confusion and knew he could not turn back. There was only one thing left to do when one had strayed as far as he had: walk on.

"Rain-Born, you are a child with the burden of destiny thrust upon you. You know only what you have been told to believe. But I say these words to you: when one walks a Path paved for them by others, one walks a Path full of fire, hatred, and evil. Such was the Path the Old Ones tore into the earth. And now they are nothing but dust beneath our feet. I ask you now, Rain-Born: is this the Path you wish to walk?"

She sheathed her knife as she listened to his words, and the sheer heresy of the question struck her mind like a great club wrought from rusted iron.

What did she want?

"I want only to serve the tribe, Ragged-Brow," she said quietly. "I want to strike against those who would destroy us."

"And yet your way is clouded by anger, child," he replied, and she had to force herself not to recoil as he placed a hand upon her sun-struck shoulder. "Righteous anger can be useful. But when one lives with only hate, one does not truly live."

She scrunched up her face at him, and her narrowed eyes and vacant expression almost brought a chuckle to his withered lips.

She really was a child, he reminded himself. Strip away the tattoos, the brashness, and the weapons, and there was a girl there just trying to navigate this wild world she had been thrust into so unceremoniously and told she had to save.

"Come, child," he said. "We shall observe this afternoon's Telling."

Rain-Born followed her Elder as he led her towards the Hut of Whispers in the town center with trepidation, scoffing slightly and murmuring that she didn't need to hear children's stories anymore. She had fifteen summers on her back.

"When I was your age, I thought as you did too. All children on the cusp of adulthood think stories are empty tales spat into the air, meant to entertain the easily amused."

He looked back at her as he opened the Hut's tent flap and ushered her inside.

"But there is more power in stories than you or I hold within our feeble hands," he said. "Stories are history, belief, and wonder wrapped in a blanket of words. And there is especially wisdom in children's tales, Rain-Born. The knowledge of all those who have walked these sands before you are contained within. Listen now, and see for yourself."

As Rain-Born struggled to understand her Elder's strange words and why he was speaking with her rather than chastising her, she suddenly felt the warmth of the outside vanish, replaced by a blanket of total darkness.

Then, as she looked to the ceiling of the tent, lights sparkled into life and revealed the rows of chittering children sitting cross-legged on the sand, listening with bated breath to the stories of the start-cloaked Teller – a male of the tribe chosen for the somber tone of his speech and his love of words as opposed to weapons. Presently he was regaling the little ones with personal tidbits – the meanings of their names, what the lines of their palms could tell them of their future – all these things Rain-Born had no time for. What good would this do if she were to be a huntress – destined for glory out in the wastes?

Yet one cursory glance back in Ragged-Brow's direction told her she was being commanded to sit amongst the infants and join in their listening.

She did so with a sigh of resignation, arousing the hushed giggling of the few children around her, one of whom – a girl who couldn't have been more than six – started playing with her hair braids that fell down her back.

She smiled as the young one's soft hands caressed her dark threads. Despite the ridiculous nature of her Elder's command, she had to admit that there was comfort in this place, surrounded by the younglings who watched her not with awe but with the curious eyes of children. They knew not what she was – who she was supposed to be – they only saw what she was now.

"When you grow up, little one," she told the girl playing with her braids. "Which House shall you join?"

"Ash!" the child exclaimed, proud at having been the one Rain-Born chose to address.

There it was, Rain-Born thought to herself. There was a special kind of delight in the certainty of knowing what you were, even at such a young age.

But as she felt her mind wander, taken in by the illusion of the star-streaked void the tent's roof presented, the Teller finally rose to deliver his story of the day.

He waited with a smile on his face. His old eyes swept over every child in the crowd until silence came upon them. He was a practiced teller – and it showed.

"Everyone," he said, in little more than a hushed whisper. "Today's tale is the Tale of Kesh."

The two candles beside him suddenly exploded into life – their flames throwing tiny embers into the air that twisted and turned like practiced dancers. Then, from the tip of each candle, two thin lines of fire weaved themselves together into the shape of a crab, surrounded by a pool of blazing, living flame.

Rain-Born found herself entranced. This was like the magic of the Guthra fire-slingers – the only beauty to be found in their mad faith. Rain-Born had heard how they could manipulate flames themselves using their magic red stones. Such stones were great plunder when found during raids – if a hunter could get hold of one without being burned themselves.

As the Teller began his tale, the wisps of flame coiled above his head into breathtaking images that moved with the story, and the little crab danced to the tune of nothing more than his words:

"In a large shimmering pond wedged in a damp cave of the Great Canyon, there lived Kesh – the biggest, toughest, and most durable Argaven crab anyone had ever seen. Kesh was much larger than the other creatures of the pond, and his powerful claws and piercing tusks meant that these other pond-dwellers were very afraid of him. Every day, Kesh would patrol the outskirts of the pond and expect fealty from each dweller he came across. Because he was stronger and bigger than the rest, Kesh expected that they should serve him. To those pond-dwellers who did not move out of the way of Kesh's warpath, he would break them apart with his claws.

One day, as Kesh made his rounds and the inhabitants of his pond parted before him, he came across a strange creature he had never seen amongst his servants before. It looked like a very tiny, round, pulsing bubble – as though it was a part of the pond itself. Apart from four beady eyes spread across its "face," the being had no discernable features. It did not seem to move very much but swayed every time another creature made a small splash in the pond that sent ripples across its bright surface.

When he came upon the being, Kesh was puzzled. How could something so small survive in the pond he ruled? And how could its existence have escaped his notice?

"What manner of creature are you?" Kesh asked the strange new being. "Speak up!"

But the being made no sound. It did not even acknowledge the great Kesh. It simply kept swaying from side to side, nudged by the gentlest ripples of the pond.

Kesh grew furious. He brought his great hulking claw down upon the unarmed thing with one slow, deliberate motion. It broke apart before him, as water parts before a rock being lobbed into its surface. And the being was no more. Kesh proudly strode away to bask in the summer sunlight.

The next day, Kesh again made his rounds, demanding supplication from his subjects. This time, however, he once again met the being who, he was certain, he had so utterly destroyed yesterday. And yet, as he moved closer, he saw there was now not only one rebellious entity to deal with but two – their bodies wedged together as though in an embrace.

Kesh roared so that all the beings of the pond would hear him.

"Cling to one another if you will; you will be punished by the Great Kesh regardless. I am the ruler of this pond, and you shall obey me!"

And once again, Kesh brought his great claw down upon the creatures. And they were no more."

The children roared with laughter as they watched the fiery Kesh stomp and splash about, raging through his tiny cave at the bottom of the world. But for Rain-Born, his actions inspired a different response. For her, something was solemn there – something restrained in each slow, weighty movement of his claws.

"The following day, yet again, Kesh found the creature revived, with three others beside it. And, as he had done all his life to all those who had rejected his rule of the pond, he destroyed them.

He did so again the next day when eight of the creatures populated his pond.

And the next day, when sixteen cuddled together.

And the next day, when there were thirty-two.

And the next day, when there were sixty-four.

And the next day, when there were one hundred and twenty-eight.

Eventually, there came a day when Kesh awoke to find a thousand pairs of eyes staring at him, unblinking, attached to small polyp-like bodies that covered the entire surface of his pond. His other subjects had since left for a less densely inhabited home, leaving Kesh the sole ruler of a kingdom that he had destroyed himself daily.

"Begone!" Kesh cried as he beat his claws on the water's surface, breaking apart all the little creatures once again. "Begone from my pond! Leave me alone, I beg of you!"

Kesh slept that night afraid, confused, and tired of fighting every day of his life. He had never faced something as powerful as the small beings whose numbers covered the entirety of his pond. And though he was proud of his self-determined right to rule his kingdom, he was lonely now – with no subjects to govern but himself. And he realized that he had hated himself all along for what he had done. All Kesh had ever wanted was a place in the world – a role he could have. He had thought that his great strength and size had conferred upon him the role of a great leader, but as he lay down in the middle of the pond to rest on this night, waiting for the creatures to emerge the following day, he realized that he had never really chosen his own Path – he had allowed his size and strength to tell him what his Path was. He looked at his reflection in the water to see an old, tired face staring back at him.

"I wish that I could belong," he said as he closed his tired lids. "Though I am big and scary and frighten away all those around me, the one thing I am most scared of is being by myself."

That night, as Kesh slept, the tiny polyp-like creatures again bubbled into life on the water's surface. But this time, they had heard Kesh's plea and, without his knowledge, climbed up onto his large scaly body. Thousands of them covered his huge carapace until they formed one massive bubble around the great crab, and slowly, Kesh sank into the depths of the pond the creatures now inhabited without opposition.

Ever since that day, the pond has been still. Confused by the silence, old denizens flocked back to see what had become of their old home. There they saw a thick puddle that moved with a life of its own, a million eyes dotting its surface. And within the largest bubble frothing at the pond's center, they saw the great Kesh, swimming in absolute harmony, twirling and spinning as though he were dancing through the air. And the old denizens slowly returned to the pond and entered the bubbles with their million eyes.

To this day, the creatures of the first pond of Kesh's canyon, and millions more, still swim together beside the great Kesh. And they call out to all those who live in the Great Canyon to join them – to come and live with each other and stop being afraid of themselves."

As the story climaxed, Kesh soared into the air with all his flame-wreathed friends, and then the fires suddenly dissipated – sucked back into the thin candles serving as their fonts. The children cheered joyfully, and some even hugged the Teller's feet. Others sat there and talked with their friends about the funny crab and his silly behavior– they certainly wouldn't grow up to be like that!

But there was one girl who sat completely mute amidst all the joy. Her name was Rain-Born, and she had not moved a single inch since the story had begun. From the moment the fire-cloaked Kesh had blazed into the life before her to the instant his flickering form had died away, she had watched, motionless, completely entranced. She could remember no stories from her youth – she had never wanted to watch them. And, with no mother or father to force her, she had merely disregarded them as trivialities. Entertainment for younglings who would never grow to serve the clan in war.

Now she looked at the spot where Kesh had once leaped in pain and pride, and she felt something within her chest give way – like the snapping of an old, dead branch. She slowly touched her hand to her heart and felt it push against her ribs, pounding with a passion she'd only ever felt during hunts or raids.

Something was happening inside her.

There was a longing for those words to be spoken again – for new light to dance in the tent's darkness. She wanted to see all creatures of the wastes dance together up there – in the simulated star-filled sky. And though the first impulse of her being compelled her to take herself by the shoulders and shake away this intrusive thought, still another piece of her willed her to stay and trace the air where the fire had once been with her fingers, reaching towards the wonder that she had just beheld.

She didn't speak as she left the tent with the Elder, and he bid her good night. She expected him to counsel her – to explain the reason he took her there that day and explain the meaning behind the strange tale. But in truth, it was not the words" meaning that struck her heart. She knew this as she bowed to the Elder and felt her chest pound excitedly. It was the magic of the story that had touched her – something felt deep in the marrow, like drops of clear rain quenching the dry thirst of the panting dirt beneath her feet. Though she couldn't articulate the thought, she knew what had just happened was something that would change the trajectory of her life. A whole new world had suddenly opened up and swallowed her whole.

When the flame died, something in her died with it.

And from its ashes, a new bird spread its wings.