The mist had lifted by the time Zion gathered his companions beneath the widebone tree that crowned their hill. From here, they could see the survivors' makeshift camp down in the hollow—smoke rising from dying fires, bodies moving slow and uncertain like shadows clinging to life.
"They're broken," Thalia said, arms folded, eyes hard.
"But not useless," Kael countered.
Zion said nothing at first. His gaze stayed fixed on the hollow below, one hand resting on the carved wood of his staff—his mind split between compassion and calculation.
They had food. They had water. They had shelter.
But they did not have trust.
"If we bring them in," Zion said at last, "they cannot weaken us. They must become us. That means tests. That means choice."
By midday, runners were sent—silent and quick. They approached the survivors without threat, bearing tokens of food and bundles of root bark wrapped in fiber. No words, just an invitation.
A message: Follow us if you seek more than survival.
Jano was the first to rise. His pride burned at being summoned like a dog, but hunger—and duty to his people—drove him forward. Behind him, others followed. Hesitant. Curious. Some hopeful.
Out of three hundred, eighty-nine came.
The trials began that evening.
They were not brutal in the way of blood or fire—but in discipline, silence, and endurance.
Each survivor was separated from their group and tested through acts of contribution:
Carrying heavy stones for future fortifications.
Hauling wood through thorn-thick paths.
Sitting for hours without speaking, in quiet meditation by sacred totems.
Preparing meals for strangers.
Answering simple but soul-baring questions like: What do you fear most? Who do you follow, now that your god is gone?
Those who lied were dismissed.
Those who resisted were watched closely.
Those who broke down were given one night's rest… and then asked to try again.
Zion did not judge alone.
Each of the seven—Kael, Thalia, Carl, and the others—were tasked with observing one group of newcomers. They gave no feedback, only quiet presence.
Zion wanted the people to reflect, not perform.
On the fourth day, Zion called a fire circle. He stood alone before the newcomers, his voice calm but resonant.
"You seek shelter, but what we offer is more than that. This is not a camp. It is a future. A tribe. One built not only by hands, but by spirit."
He gestured toward the engraved rock behind him, marked with symbols from the pantheon.
"We do not ask you to abandon your gods, only to accept that they may no longer walk this land. But ours… ours have answered."
His eyes swept over them.
"This is your trial. Not to fight—but to believe. To build. To serve not just yourselves, but something greater. If that burden is too heavy, walk away now. We will not stop you."
Not one moved.
That night, Zion returned to the central hut and spoke with his inner circle. The fire crackled low, shadows dancing along their hardened faces.
"They want in," Carl said, "but can they change?"
"Change takes time," Thalia replied. "So let's start the clock."
Zion nodded slowly.
"We'll give them two moons. Food, training, labor, and lessons. If they learn… they become one of us. If not… we send them away with supplies."
And so the Trial of Will began—not just for the survivors, but for Zion's tribe itself.
For in offering mercy, they risked their strength.
But in unity, they might spark a flame great enough to light a new age.