Chapter Text
The spring solstice fire had been lit long before the sun dipped, and now its flames reached high into the night, spitting sparks that danced like fireflies. Heat rolled through the clearing, thick with the scent of pine resin, scorched oak, and the faint sweetness of dried blossoms curling in the flame.
The clan gathered in uneven rings, arranged more by age and intention than ceremony. The young women stood nearest the fire on the north side, dressed in their finest—soft linen dyed with plant-stained hues, hair coiled and pinned with sakura blossoms, a few bold enough to weave in brighter blooms. They whispered and laughed beneath the hum of the drums, shifting from foot to foot, the warm light catching on polished bracelets and the curve of bare shoulders.
Across from them lingered the eligible young men—some in quiet clusters, others already scanning the line of women, blades at their hips and smoke clinging to their skin. Their voices were lower, more contained, but no less electric. It was a night for choosing.
Further back waited the rest of the clan—parents, kin, the nosy and the nostalgic, seated on logs or crouched near the edge of the firelight. And beyond them, in the shadows, the elders, cloaks drawn close around thin shoulders, content to watch, to judge, to remember.
On the edges of the inner circle, she stood a little apart, tugging at the hem of the dress Ayame had pressed into her hands only hours ago. It clung in ways she wasn’t used to—soft fabric brushing bare skin where she usually wore leather or wool.
“You look gorgeous, stop fidgeting,” Ayame murmured beside her, her voice warm with affection and a hint of amusement. The other girl’s golden hair gleamed in the firelight, blossoms of pale sakura and deep violet iris pinned throughout like a crown.
“Though why you insisted on weaving knotweed of all things into your crown, I’ll never understand.” She tsked. “Not even a sprig of sakura. You could’ve matched the rest of us. Still…” Her smile softened. “You look beautiful.”
She flushed, brushing her fingers over the rough stems. “This fits me better.”
Ayame laughed under her breath, nudging her shoulder with easy affection. “Stubborn as ever.”
Her gaze, gleaming in the glow, flicked back to the fire. The drums had quickened—a signal. The circle was waiting.
The warmth pressed against their faces as they stood together. For a while, they simply watched the flicker of light dance across the crowd—the gleam of knives at belts, the shine of polished hair ornaments, the restless anticipation rippling through the air.
“Can you believe it?” Ayame whispered, wonder softening her voice. “Our first claiming festival.”
She smiled faintly, watching the sparks drift upward. “Hard to believe, really.”
Ayame nudged her with a sly grin. “So—think any of the hunters will offer you their knife tonight?”
She snorted. “Why would anyone pick me? I’m not even from this clan.”
Ayame rolled her eyes. “You’ve been with the clan since you were little. You hunt with them, train with them—you’ve earned your place here.” She nudged her again, smiling. “Besides, you’re a better hunter than most of them.”
“All the more reason for them not to choose me.” She shrugged. “Still an outsider.”
Ayame tapped her lip, pretending to think. “Hmm. Maybe Taro will offer his knife.”
She groaned. “Don’t even joke about that.”
Ayame laughed under her breath. “What? He’s bold enough.”
“Exactly,” she said. “And loud. He’d probably make a whole speech first, like he’s leading a hunt.”
Ayame’s laughter came brighter this time, the sound lost for a moment in the noise of the crowd. “Think of the strong hunters you’ll have.”
“You’re ridiculous. Besides,” she added, shaking her head, “it’s humiliating for both sides when someone rejects a knife. I’ll pass on that kind of attention.”
Ayame didn’t argue further. Instead, her voice dropped lower, almost secretive. “Have you seen him yet? Has Bakugo shown up?”
Her eyes swept the crowd before she could stop herself. “Not yet.”
“Good.” Ayame smiled, though her voice trembled slightly beneath its brightness. “He hasn’t offered his knife to anyone since he came of age.”
Her tone dropped to a whisper, hope threading through every word. “But this is it. I can feel it. I’m eligible now. I know he’ll choose me.”
Around the circle, voices rose as people laughed and called for the first offering to begin. She drew in a breath and steadied herself, heart thudding in time with the drums. The laughter dimmed, replaced by the hush of expectation. Across the fire, a knot of young men stood together, their earlier boasting faltering under the weight of the moment. One of them shifted, the movement slight but enough to catch notice. Then, as the circle quieted, the fire popped—a single spark flaring and dying—and one of them stepped forward.
The crowd drew tighter around the fire as the first man broke from the ring. He wasn’t one of the young hunters, as everyone expected, but Toren—the blacksmith’s son. He’d clearly made an effort for the night; the soot that usually blackened his arms was gone, his forge apron traded for a clean tunic and his hair tied back. The knife in his hand caught the firelight.
He stopped before Lira, the baker’s daughter. For a heartbeat the clearing held its breath. Then he extended the knife, blade resting flat across both palms.
Lira stared at it, at him, and then reached out. Her fingers brushed the hilt before she took the knife from him. With the same steady hands she used to knead bread, she drew the blade across his open palm—one sharp, clean line. He hissed softly but didn’t pull away.
He accepted the knife back, mirrored the motion across her hand, and their blood welled crimson in the firelight.
When they clasped palms, sealing the bond, the crowd broke into cheers. Their mingled blood dripped into the dirt, dark and steaming where it met the earth.
Toren laughed aloud, lifting their joined hands high, their faces flushed with heat and triumph.
The fire popped, and over the fading cheers a woman’s voice rose above the crowd—smooth, certain, and impossible to ignore. Even the fire seemed to hush. Across the clearing, the chieftess Mitsuki stood among the elders, crimson cloth bright against the dark.
Her voice cut through the night like a drawn blade.
“Our first pairing of the night! May it bring strength and prosperity to the clan!”
She lifted her hand toward the fire. “Blood remembers blood!”
The crowd answered at once, voices rolling like thunder.
“And blood binds us!”
The cheers rose again, louder this time, until the drums caught the rhythm and the night pulsed with flame.
Tankards lifted, boots stamped, drums rolled once more. The noise swelled until it became a wall of sound, echoing against the treeline before fading again into murmurs and shifting feet.
Ayame leaned close, smiling. “I always knew they’d end up together.”
She nodded, eyes on the young couple. “I’m surprised he went first.”
Ayame’s grin was bright. “Well, he didn’t want to waste any—”
She never finished. The noise of the crowd shifted—laughter thinning, drums faltering. The kind of hush that moved through people before anyone spoke it aloud.
Beyond the firelight, something shifted.
A ripple through the onlookers, as if the air itself had sensed him first.
Then—movement.
Deliberate. Unstoppable.
He didn’t ask for space. It parted for him—wordless, instinctive, the way prey yields to a predator it knows it can’t outrun.
While the others wore their finest tunics, he came dressed for battle, not display.
The kind of strength that didn’t need embellishment.
Like he’d stepped out of the wild and into the firelight—not for them,
but despite them.
He stopped well beyond the edges of the inner circle. But the flames still caught the glint of steel at his belt—not some polished ceremonial blade, but a hunter’s knife, well-worn and sharp.
His jaw was cut from defiance, his frame broad and tall, as if carved straight from the land itself.
Hair wild and unbound, it burned gold in the firelight.
Not just a man.
A force.
A flicker of recognition stirred the circle.
Whispers followed him like sparks:
Bakugo.
Mitsuki’s voice cut through them, dry as smoke. “So my son decides to grace us with his presence after the first pairing.”
The crowd rippled with soft laughter, half-nervous, half-fond.
Bakugo didn’t bother answering. His gaze swept once around the fire, taking in the crowd, the couples, the knives gleaming at belts. For a moment his expression was unreadable—then the corner of his mouth twitched, something between a smirk and a challenge.
Mitsuki’s dry remark still hung in the air, but it barely mattered. Every eye near the fire had turned toward her son.
The shift was almost physical. Women straightened their backs, laughter softened to whispers, and the scent of perfume and mead thickened on the air. A few giggles broke through the hush, quickly swallowed again. She could see the way some of the younger girls leaned toward one another, eyes bright with the same question—would he choose someone this year? Would he choose me?
Beside her, Ayame’s breath hitched. “He’s here.”
He was. And the night, somehow, felt sharper for it. The air around the fire seemed to lean his way, drawn to the confidence in his stride, the easy weight of the knife at his belt.
Ayame pressed a hand to her braid, smoothing hair that didn’t need it. “Do you think I should—should I move closer?” she murmured, eyes wide and glittering. “No, that’s silly. Maybe just a little—”
She half-stepped forward, then hesitated again, caught between boldness and caution.
Before she could decide, another man broke from the ring.
The hunter moved with the loose, easy swagger that always made her wary. Even before the firelight caught his face, she knew that stride.
“Taro,” she breathed.
Ayame straightened instinctively, her hand brushing her throat. The crowd quieted again, curious.
He strode toward them, chin lifted, the glint of a knife in his hand. His grin was easy, confident—the same grin he wore after a successful hunt, when the whole hall was forced to listen to his stories.
The circle shifted with him, the crowd drawing back just enough to clear his path.
Beside her, Ayame straightened, the air leaving her lungs in a sharp breath. She could feel the heat rolling off the fire, the weight of eyes turning their way.
Taro’s gaze swept over them both as he closed the distance. For a heartbeat, he looked straight at her, that familiar, too-bold smile tugging at his mouth. He even winked.
Her stomach dropped.
And then he stopped in front of Ayame.
“Ayame,” Taro said, his voice carrying easily over the crowd. “Will you accept my knife?”
For a heartbeat, nothing moved. Then came the gasps—the delighted little oohs and murmurs that rippled through the crowd. Taro was one of the clan’s best hunters, and she was the clan’s beauty. To everyone else, it made perfect sense.
But she knew better.
Beside her, Ayame had gone very still.
The knife glinted in the firelight, caught between them. He stood waiting, confident, a smile tugging at his mouth as if he could already feel her hand closing around the hilt.
She didn’t move.
The seconds dragged, the sound of the fire growing louder until it seemed to fill the whole clearing. Somewhere toward the back, someone cleared their throat. A nervous laugh flickered and died. The excitement curdled into a hush heavy enough to make her chest ache.
Ayame’s hands trembled where they hung at her sides. She opened her mouth, closed it again. Her lips parted as if to speak, but no words came.
Taro’s smile wavered. He shifted his weight, lowering the knife a little, confusion furrowing his brow. “Ayame?”
Finally, she shook her head, the motion small, barely visible. “I—” Her voice cracked. She swallowed hard and forced the words out. “I’m sorry. I can’t accept your knife.”
For a long moment, the world didn’t seem to breathe. Then his arm dropped, the blade catching the firelight one last time before it fell to his side. That motion alone told the rest of the circle what had happened.
A ripple of noise broke the stillness—a sharp breath here, a whispered curse there. The air felt charged, unsteady.
For a long moment, no one moved. Then Taro straightened, his jaw tight, the easy grin gone. He gave a single nod—polite, curt—and turned away.
No one spoke as he passed. A few of the younger hunters shifted, pretending to adjust their belts or cups, eyes fixed anywhere but on him. The space around the fire felt suddenly smaller, the air heavier.
Ayame’s shoulders sagged once his back was turned. Her face was pale in the firelight, mouth trembling as if she wanted to speak and couldn’t.
“Are you all right?” she asked softly.
Ayame forced a small, brittle smile. “I’m fine,” she said, the words thin as smoke. Her gaze flicked toward the far side of the circle, to where Bakugo stood half-shadowed. “I just—need some air.”
She smoothed her skirts with shaking hands and stepped away, weaving into the crowd, her head held a little too high.
The murmur of voices slowly crept back in, low and uncertain, until Mitsuki’s voice cut across it like a whip.
“Enough gawking,” she said, cool and sharp. “It’s a festival, not a funeral.”
The laughter returned by degrees, brittle and too loud, as the tension bled back into noise. Ayame was gone, swallowed by the crowd, and the fire burned a little lower now.
She stood there, eyes on the flames, trying to pretend she hadn’t just watched a friend get humiliated in front of nearly the entire clan.
Her fingers brushed unconsciously over the faint scar on her hand—a line she’d stopped noticing years ago. It ached now, faintly, like an old memory straining to surface.
Then she felt it.
A prickle at the base of her neck. The weight of a stare.
Familiar. Unmistakable.
Her gaze caught on the shape of him beyond the flame.
Bakugo still stood apart from the others, half-shadowed by the flames.
He wasn’t speaking. Wasn’t smiling. Wasn’t moving.
But he was watching her.
That look—
It sent heat crawling up her spine.
Unflinching. Intense.
Like he was trying to burn through her without ever taking a step.
She swallowed.
Her heart kicked once, sharp and uncertain.
He didn’t look away.
And somehow, neither could she.
