The sky was torn open by the fury of the gods.
Winds howled across the endless sea of forest, bending the towering trees of the Ayruam territory as if they were mere stalks of grass. The rain fell in thick, angry sheets, drenching the earth and turning the paths into rivers of mud. Thunder cracked and rumbled across the heavens, and the night was as alive as any beast of the wilds.
In the center of it all, the Ayruam tribe huddled within their great longhouses of woven reed and clay, whispering prayers to the spirits. Fires guttered against the damp wind. Old mothers spat into the dirt, warding off ill omens. Warriors sat in stoic silence, their flint-tipped spears at hand, for storms often brought more than rain — they brought enemies, spirits, and change.
Inside the largest longhouse, Chief Ma'kua sat cross-legged beside the central fire, his jaw clenched in silence. He was a mountain of a man, his skin carved with the scars of a hundred battles, his black hair streaked with silver. His eyes, sharp as the hawk, stared unblinking into the flames.
Behind the curtain of hanging furs, his wife, Iwame, labored to bring forth their son.
"Push, Iwame," croaked the old midwife, Pa'rit, her voice low yet firm. "He comes with the storm at his back."
Iwame's body shook with the force of her effort. Sweat mingled with rainwater on her brow. She clenched her teeth and obeyed, pushing with all the strength left in her. Outside, the storm raged, as if the world itself awaited the child's arrival.
Another cry tore from Iwame's throat, and then — a different sound.
A newborn's wail pierced the night, strong and wild, rising above the shriek of the wind.
Pa'rit laughed, a hoarse, triumphant sound. "He is here! The Sky has given him breath!"
Chief Ma'kua rose at once, his heavy steps shaking the floor. He pushed aside the furs and entered the birthing chamber. The midwife knelt before him, holding a small, wriggling figure wrapped in a strip of jaguar hide.
Ma'kua's face remained stone, but inside his chest, something old and fierce stirred. Without a word, he took the child into his arms.
The boy was strong. His tiny fists flailed against the world that had so violently birthed him. His lungs were fierce. His spirit was undeniable.
Ma'kua raised the child toward the smoke hole of the longhouse, offering him to the storm.
"You who are above the storm," Ma'kua intoned, his voice a rumble, "hear me. This son is born not of fear, but of thunder. Not of weakness, but of the sky."
He turned, facing the gathered warriors who had slipped silently into the longhouse to witness the rite. Faces painted in ochre and soot stared back at him, eyes burning with restrained emotion.
"He shall be called Arã," Ma'kua declared. "Sky. Bird. He who rides above the storm."
A murmur ran through the warriors, a ripple of approval that no man would dare speak aloud. To name a child with such words was to place a heavy burden on his spirit. But none questioned it. All had heard the storm. All had seen the signs.
Pa'rit, kneeling by Iwame's side, whispered a prayer to the old spirits. She had seen the birthmark on the child's shoulder — a swirl, shaped like a cloud pierced by a lightning bolt. She said nothing, for omens were dangerous to speak aloud.
"Bring him to the Elder Circle," Ma'kua commanded. "Tonight."
"Tonight, Chief?" asked his brother, Akaru, stepping forward. "The storm still rages."
Ma'kua's gaze turned upon him, cold and unflinching.
"A warrior does not wait for calm skies."
Akaru lowered his head. "As you command."
The Elder Circle was gathered by the sacred stones, atop the high hill overlooking the Ayruam lands. The climb was brutal, the path slippery with rain and muck, but Ma'kua led them without hesitation, the newborn Arã held against his chest.
The stones loomed like black teeth against the roiling sky. Lightning flickered, illuminating the runes carved into their surfaces — ancient marks whose meanings were lost to all but the eldest of shamans.
Ten Elders stood waiting, wrapped in cloaks of jaguar and anaconda skin. Their faces were marked with white clay, their eyes shadowed under heavy brows. At their head stood Takarê, the oldest and wisest, whose breath was thin but whose spirit was sharp as obsidian.
"You bring a child," Takarê rasped. "And the storm."
"He is Arã," Ma'kua said. "Born of sky and tempest."
Takarê studied the child in silence. Then he raised his arms, palms open to the rain.
"Spirits of Ayruam!" he cried into the roaring night. "We witness this birth. We witness this bond."
The other Elders chanted low, their voices threading into the storm's howling.
"We witness!"
Takarê stepped forward and placed a hand on the boy's forehead. His eyes fluttered closed. He whispered something too soft to hear.
Then he pulled back and nodded.
"This one will break many things," the old shaman said, half in awe, half in fear. "But first, he must survive."
Ma'kua grunted, the closest thing he ever gave to agreement. Carefully, he lowered Arã onto the wet grass between the sacred stones.
"If the Sky claims him," Ma'kua said, "let it strike him down."
The warriors of Ayruam, the Elders, and the storm itself held their breath.
Lightning flashed.
For a heartbeat, all the world was white.
When sight returned, Arã still lay there, tiny, screaming, alive.
The stones had not split. The ground had not opened. The spirits had not claimed him.
Takarê smiled, a thin and broken thing.
"He is accepted," he said.
The Ayruam warriors stamped their spears into the ground in silent salute.
Ma'kua lifted his son once more, and this time, he allowed a ghost of a smile to touch his lips.
The storm bellowed its approval.
That night, the tribe feasted, as much as the storm allowed. Fires sputtered but survived, and the aroma of roasted capybara and jungle roots filled the air.
Yet not all were joyful.
In the shadow of the largest longhouse, Akaru leaned against a pillar, arms crossed.
"A name as high as the sky," he muttered to himself. "And what if he falls?"
Beside him, the young warrior Tarok listened in silence, his brow furrowed.
"Careful, Akaru," Tarok whispered. "Words are winds that carry seeds."
"Then let them carry," Akaru said, his eyes dark. "The Chief forgets—birds can be struck down, even in the heights."
The two men fell silent as Ma'kua passed, carrying Arã in his arms, the child sleeping deeply despite the howling wind.
The seeds of envy had been sown.
And the storm above was not the only storm that would shape Arã's life.
Later, after the fires dwindled and the warriors slept, Ma'kua sat alone beside his wife.
Iwame, pale but alive, cradled Arã against her breast.
"Will he be strong?" she whispered, her voice thin as smoke.
Ma'kua's hand brushed her hair back gently, an intimacy few ever saw.
"He must be," the Chief said. "The spirits have named him with thunder."
Iwame closed her eyes, and in the cradle of her arms, Arã stirred.
Outside, the storm began to weaken, the winds softening to a mournful sigh.
In the deep hours of the night, Ma'kua dreamed.
He stood on a mountain of broken spears, the corpses of enemies and brothers alike strewn at his feet. Above, the sky churned black and furious. And there, atop a stone spire, stood Arã, no longer a babe, but a young man with hair like storm clouds and eyes of burning gold.
In his hand was a spear unlike any Ma'kua had ever seen — a shaft of living lightning.
Arã raised the spear high, and the sky answered with a roar.
"Storm-born," a thousand voices whispered. "Storm-bringer."
Ma'kua awoke with a start, the dream still vivid in his mind.
He rose silently, stepping out into the damp air of the clearing. Above him, the last ragged clouds raced across a bruised sky.
He looked up, his heart a stone in his chest.
"Let the Sky make him worthy," he murmured to the fading stars. "Or let the Sky break him."
The first light of dawn broke over the Ayruam lands.