Like every other high school, the students of Ravenwood Academy know nothing more beyond the world of their own teenage lives -- a world of classes to pass, social reputations to live up to, and dirty little secrets to keep.
But when strange dangero...
The man dipped the reed into a bowl of dark blue pigment, drew symbols on the boy's lower lip, all the way down his chin, completing his work of art. The boy was only thirteen, too young to be marked permanently; but in a few years, after he completed his training, he would be—symbols etched in dark blue on his face and chest and arms. This was a rite of passage, just as that day was, for the son of a Moanian chief.
They brought the boy out to the field, where the two people of the Southern Island had gathered themselves for the annual Peace Festival—"Kapayapaan" in the words of the Kadasan Tribe, "Rangimarie" in Moanian speak. He treaded on alongside the Tohunga, the high priest of their people, and his aides. His bare feet padded down damp grass, his eyes flitted from one ornate tent to another, in a sea of blue. He felt himself shiver in the cold dawn air, and it wasn't just the cold that made him tremble.
"Nervous?" asked the Tohunga.
"Yes," the boy said, more aware, more protective of the weapon strapped onto his back—an axe, its hilt carved in religious symbols, its blade of smooth pacific blue stone with dark blue veins creeping across the surface. But there was this strange excitement to this, his first commemoration ceremony, yet it scared him all the same.
"You have trained well," assured the Tohunga, smiling down at the boy, "as your kaiako tells me and your father. You move swiftly, noiselessly. You swing your axe with precision, seemingly without effort."
"I train to the best of my abilities," said the boy, proudly. "I train for hours over. I want to be a great warrior like my father and my blood brothers."
"I see," said the Tohunga. "But let not pride blind you. You must stay focused, alert, and remember everything your kaiako has taught you whilst you fight. And, Toa"—the Tohunga smiled—"make our people proud."
"I will," said the boy Toa. The sun rose over the horizon, scattering its golden light into the purple and orange sky. The boy looked to his left, and gazed at the sunup for a moment. "I will."
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Awiyao stood at the front of the crowd, next to his father, the tribal leader of their people. Breathe in, breathe out. Two men, elders—one of the Kadasan Tribe, the other a Moanian—walked over to the crater that lay between the two peoples.
Awiyao did not want this, but there was no other choice. It was tradition that the son of the tribal leader (or the son of an elder in absence of a prince), from the age of thirteen onwards, must participate in the commemoration ceremony at least once, without excuse, without his approval or disapproval.
His hand travelled down to the scar on his upper arm, the mark the second-born Moanian prince had etched on his skin the prior year, his first commemoration ceremony. He was thirteen then, weaker than the sixteen-year-old Moanian prince. One must be defeated, one must draw blood—a reminder of the tragedy of war between both tribes, a reminder of the many lives lost in battle—now the real purpose lost in an annual form entertainment. Now fourteen, he had trained hard through the year after his public defeat. But he still did not want this, not at all.
