The sudden flare of a hundred lanterns transformed the riverbank into a realm of amber light and long, dancing shadows. J?kob stood frozen as the silence of the meadow shattered into a roar of cheers. Before he could draw a full breath, he was swept into a sea of coarse wool tunics that smelled of woodsmoke and elderberry wine. The townsfolk pressed in, their hands heavy and warm on his shoulders as they offered blessings for his thirteenth year.

  Near the groaning trestle tables, he spotted the Kiltzka children. Jonah, the eldest and Matáo’s closest companion, stood with a proprietary air near the roasting pits. Beside him, the twins, Jessie and Joel, were a blur of red hair and identical smirks.

  “Did you know?” J?kob asked, breathless as he reached them.

  “Yes,” the twins said in a perfect, unsettling unison.

  “Why didn’t you say anything?” J?kob pressed, his eyes darting to the massive dragon-shaped cake at the center of the feast.

  “We were bound to silence,” the twins replied, their voices as one. “She said she wouldn't let us have cake if we said anything.”

  “By whom?”

  “Your sister,” Jonah interjected, stepping forward with a grin. “Nìa has a way of making a secret feel like a royal decree. None dared cross her, lest they find their next tunic stitched shut at the arm-holes.”

  Jonah and Matáo had been inseparable since they were old enough to lift a practice sword; their friendship was the iron that held the village youth together. The twins, though more active than J?kob’s hollow chest often allowed him to be, were the only true friends he possessed. In the quiet hours when Nìa was bartering for books and Matáo was felling timber, the three of them would steal away to the river. They had learned the art of the "silent trek," slipping into the water for a swim or casting lines for trout, always careful to return before their overprotective guardians noticed the dampness of their hair.

  The night became a blur of music and motion. Local fiddlers took to the stumps, their bows dancing across strings to produce melodies that echoed off the cliffs of Echo. Women danced in circles, their skirts swirling like autumn leaves, while the men clapped a rhythmic thunder. J?kob felt the isolation of the morning melting away; he was no longer a ghost in his home.

  The celebration was so fierce that as the moon dipped toward the horizon, many simply collapsed where they sat, wrapped in thick furs by the dying embers of the roasting pits. When the sun finally peeked over the eastern branch of the Serpent’s Tongue, the festival began anew. After a breakfast of cold salted boar and leftover bread, the games commenced.

  The horseshoe competition was a grueling affair, ending in a deadlock that Matáo hadn't anticipated. He turned to the crowd, his brow furrowed in mock distress. “The fates refuse to choose a victor! How say you, neighbors? How do we break this tie?”

  The crowd deliberated with the gravity of a high court before deciding on a final shootout: three shoes each. J?kob was chosen to represent his side. With a steady hand, he loosed the iron. Two ringers clattered home, followed by a "leaner" that hugged the stake.

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  Matáo stepped up, his expression one of playful intensity. His first throw struck J?kob’s leaner, knocking it into a full ringer before his own shoe bounced out of the pit. His second was a perfect ringer, leaving the score dangerously close. For his final toss, Matáo needed to dislodge J?kob’s scoring shoe to force another tie. He drew back, but the iron sailed wide, thudding harmlessly into the grass.

  The cheering was deafening. J?kob and Nìa were hoisted up as the champions of the pits. The village blacksmith, a man of few words and soot-stained hands, disappeared into his small portable forge for a moment. He returned with two tiny, gleaming horseshoes fashioned from copper, hung on cords of braided leather. He draped them around the winners' necks: a prize of fire-wrought metal for the victors of the riverbank.

  As the heat of midday arrived, the greased-pig run began. J?kob watched from the sidelines, laughing until his sides ached as the younger children, including Mrs. Porter’s son Peter, tumbled through the mud in pursuit of a squealing, slippery hog. It took nearly a half-hour of frantic lunging before Peter finally secured the beast, emerging from the fray more mud than boy.

  But the true gravity of the day arrived when Nìa signaled for the gift-giving.

  She led J?kob to the great table, where the village had gathered their tributes. Nìa went first, presenting him with a new tunic of fine-spun wool and trousers that didn't stop at his ankles. “For a boy who insists on growing when he should be resting,” she whispered with a kiss on his brow.

  The gifts followed in a steady stream of kindness. Mr. Kiltzka and the blacksmith presented a hunting knife with an eight-inch blade of tempered steel, its handle carved from the antler of a buck Matáo had taken the previous winter. The twins gave him an ancient brass compass; its needle still sought the north with a steady, magical pull. The cobbler provided sturdy leather boots, built a size too large so that J?kob might "walk into his future" without pinching his toes.

  Lastly, Matáo stood. He did not reach for a wrapped bundle. Instead, he walked to a nearby elm and reached into a deep, lightning-scarred hollow in the trunk. He withdrew a long, rough-hewn stave of seasoned wood.

  “Happy name-day, J?k,” Matáo said, handing the heavy timber to his brother.

  J?kob took the wood, his brow furrowed in genuine confusion. It was a fine piece of ash, straight-grained and heavy, but it was just... wood. “Matáo always gives the best gifts,” he thought with his heart sinking. “Why give me a branch for my thirteenth year?”

  Matáo let out a low chuckle, seeing the bewilderment on the boy's face. “What? No thanks for the finest piece of heartwood in the valley?”

  “What is it?” J?kob asked, his voice small.

  “What does it look like, little brother?”

  “A piece of wood. A very nice piece of wood,” J?kob replied, his frustration beginning to simmer.

  “Well, since your mind is as clouded as the falls, I will give you a hint,” Matáo said, his eyes glinting. “You shattered yours yesterday.”

  J?kob’s eyes went wide. The confusion vanished, replaced by a radiant, toothy smile. “It’s a bow-stave. But... it isn't finished. Am I to make it myself?” His face fell slightly. “I don’t know the secrets of the draw-knife, Matáo. I don’t know how to shape the limbs. Will you help?”

  “I wouldn't have it any other way,” Matáo said, clapping him on the shoulder. “I will teach you the way our father taught me. Every man should know the soul of the weapon he carries.”

  “Can we start now? Today?” J?kob asked, the energy returning to his limbs.

  “Not today, little dragon. We have a mountain of leftovers to pack, tables to strike, and fires to douse. A hunter must first respect the hearth he leaves behind. But tomorrow, when the sun clears the ridge, we begin. I’ve been seasoning this ash for two years, J?k. I knew you’d outgrow that child’s toy eventually; I just didn't expect you to break it with your bare hands. It’s ready when you are.”