Flokie RavenClaw stood before the fire and told the tribes he was their king. No one knelt. The chief of the ash-clan spat into the dust. "Royal blood," she said. "So you say. We have buried a hundred wanderers with grand names." Flokie's ears flattened against his skull. The marks on his flesh, dark and pointed, proved his line to anyone who cared. These chiefs did not care. He was young. He owned nothing but the sword on his back and a claim no one could see. The humans held the buried wasteland his people once ruled. He needed these tribes united to take it back. But they would not follow a face. They followed proof. "Bring me a symbol," the ash-chief said. "Then talk of kings." The others laughed and turned back to their meat. That night Flokie walked past the edge of the camps. He found a strange tree standing alone. Its branches cradled a crystal seed that glowed with a light that was not the moon's. He had heard the old stories. The seed only shows itself to the true blood. He reached for it. A snarl stopped his hand. From the roots rose a red beast, small but thick with muscle. Its yellow eyes fixed on him. A young dragon, guarding the tree. It lunged. Flokie rolled and drew his sword. The creature was fast. Its tail cracked against his ribs and dropped him. He did not swing again. He remembered the stories. The guardian bows to the blood it serves. Flokie lowered his blade. He held out his open hand, marked flesh up, and did not move. The dragon circled him. It sniffed the marks. Its snarl faded. Then it pressed its bald red head into his palm. The tree shivered. The crystal seed dropped into Flokie's other hand, warm and burning bright. He carried both back to the fires before dawn. The dragon walked at his heel like it had always belonged there. Flokie threw the glowing seed onto the ground before the ash-chief. Its light climbed the faces of every chief who had laughed. The ash-chief stood slowly. Her spit was gone now. "The seed chooses," she said. "And the guardian follows." She went to one knee. The others followed, one by one, until the whole circle knelt in the seed's blue light. By morning they raised a great tent for him at the center of the camps. Banners hung from its frame. Warriors filed inside to swear their oaths on bent knee. Flokie sat with the dragon coiled beside his chair and watched a hundred fighters bind themselves to his name. He had his symbol. He had his banner. But the tribes had knelt to a legend, not a man. Now they expected him to lead them against the humans who had held the wasteland for a hundred years. He had never led anyone. And they were already sharpening their spears.