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Chapter Text

Aloy stirred awake to the familiar chill of an empty bedroll, her fingers brushing against the coarse canvas cover that lay stretched over the straw-filled mattress. It was a sensation she had grown accustomed to, a cold, unyielding presence that greeted her most mornings in this secluded cliffside refuge she hesitantly called home. The faint, silvery glow of dawn filtered through the cracks in the stone walls, painting faint streaks of light across the room. Propped on one elbow, her verdant eyes, heavy with sleep, scanned the compact space. The absence of another figure was no surprise. She was alone. She always was.

This solitude was a pattern she had come to expect.

Rost, her guardian and only companion, was as predictable as the turning of the seasons. A former Nora Brave turned outcast, Rost often disappeared into the wilderness before the sun rose, leaving Aloy to wake to silence. He would spend hours in the untamed wilds that stretched endlessly beyond the Sacred Lands, tracking rogue machines, hunting game, or foraging for firewood. Meanwhile, Aloy was left to prepare herself for the day ahead—a routine they had both fallen into with the inevitability of water carving its path through stone.

But today wasn’t just any day. Today was different. Today was the day of the Proving.

The thought stirred something in her—a nervous energy, coiled tight like a spring. She swung her legs over the side of the bed, her bare feet meeting the icy stone floor with a soft hiss of breath as she recoiled from the chill. Reaching for her hunting boots, she slid her feet into their well-worn embrace. The leather had long since moulded to the contours of her slender feet, the result of years spent trekking through rugged terrain. As she moved with quiet purpose, she pushed her long, vermillion hair—thick with braids—over her shoulders, the strands catching what little light the room offered.

Dressing came next: a quick process born of necessity rather than vanity. The frigid air seeped into her skin, reminding her that the Nora winter spared no one. Aloy slipped into her undergarments, followed by layers of Nora furs, their coarse texture a small comfort against the biting cold. Her fingers, slightly calloused from years of wielding weapons and tools, fastened her garments with practiced ease. Freckles dusted her face, standing out starkly against her pale skin, now flushed from the chill of the morning.

As her hands worked, her thoughts wandered to the land she called home—or, more accurately, the land that tolerated her existence. In the time of the Old Ones, this region had been a sprawling landscape of towering cities and interconnected roads, known to its inhabitants as Colorado. Now, centuries later, it was a realm of jagged mountains and sprawling wilderness, reclaimed by nature and ruled by the enigmatic, mechanical beasts that roamed its expanse. This was the Sacred Lands, the domain of the Nora, a fiercely isolationist tribe that shunned the outside world with a conviction as unyielding as the mountains themselves.

But Aloy wasn’t truly one of them. She wasn’t Nora—or anything, really.

From the moment of her birth, she had been cast out, labeled an outcast for reasons no one had ever bothered to explain. The tribe treated her existence like an inconvenient truth, best ignored or reviled. Even as a child, any attempt she made to bridge the chasm between herself and the Nora ended in rejection. Their disdain was palpable, cutting through her like a blade, and more than once, she had fled their judgmental eyes, retreating into the wilds with tears streaming down her cheeks.

Time had toughened her, sculpting her like stone under a relentless wind. She no longer cried. Not outwardly, at least. But the sting of their rejection lingered in her heart, a bitter ember that refused to fade. No matter how strong or capable she became, she was reminded daily of her status as an outsider—an unwanted presence in the only home she had ever known.

Finished dressing, Aloy crossed the room to the small, crude window carved into the stone. She gazed out, her eyes narrowing against the brightness of the sun as it began to crest over the mountains in the distance. The day had fully arrived, bringing with it the urgency of her plans. She knew Rost’s habits well; by now, he was likely making his way back from his morning hunt, arms laden with whatever spoils he’d managed to gather. If she intended to slip away unnoticed, she needed to act now.

Aloy’s jaw tightened with determination as she turned from the window. The Proving waited for no one, least of all an outcast like her.

Aloy had never known a world beyond the jagged expanse of terrain known as The Embrace. To the Nora, who fiercely guarded these lands, it was a sanctuary—a place where their people could live in supposed harmony with nature, shielded from the dangers of the outside world. They named it reverently, as if the very ground offered them the protective embrace of their All-Mother. Yet, to outsiders, it was known by a different name: The Savage East. This land, unforgiving and wild, was steeped in treacherous beauty, marked by its dense forests, rocky crags, and valleys teeming with both life and death. For Aloy, it was all she had ever known—both her prison and her proving ground.

As an outcast, her life was a paradox. While the Nora’s laws forbade her from taking part in their rituals or sharing their fires, the High Matriarchs had permitted her to trade with the merchants who dotted the scattered villages within the Embrace. Of course, this was a permission granted more in spirit than in practice. Most merchants refused to even meet her gaze, let alone acknowledge her with a word. Fewer still would barter with her, no matter how impressive her hauls from the wilds might be. But every so often, a select few—the kind with weathered faces and softened eyes—would extend her a morsel of pity or perhaps an unspoken admiration for her resilience. Whether it was out of kindness or curiosity, they offered her essentials: food, medicine, a rare piece of armor, or even, on occasion, a weapon.

This morning, as Aloy descended the mountain pass, her boots kicking up loose stones and dirt, she noted the eerie stillness of the villages below. Normally, the winding paths and wooden walkways bustled with Nora Braves and clansfolk. Their voices—raised in argument, song, or idle chatter—would echo across the cliffs. But today, the villages lay silent, their usual activity absent. Aloy frowned but thought little of it. The Proving was on everyone’s mind, after all. It was the kind of event that could empty even the most industrious corners of the Embrace.

The crisp breeze of the season’s first frost brushed against her face as she reached an outcropping of scraggly trees just beyond the Southern Embrace Gate. She pulled her cloak tighter against the chill, her freckled cheeks flushed from the cold. Beneath a hollow log at the tree line lay her hunting bow, tucked away in its makeshift hiding place. Rost had crafted it himself, its wood polished smooth by years of use. The bowstring, taut and worn, bore the memories of countless winters, each one harsher than the last.

The paths she now walked, etched into the mountains by generations of Nora Braves, were familiar but far from safe. Within the craggy ridges and shadowy groves, creatures—both metal and flesh—prowled the land with unyielding vigilance. Venomous snakes coiled silently beneath rocks, and rabid animals roamed where the forest grew thick. Even the machines, those strange, otherworldly constructs of the Old Ones, moved freely through these wilds. Aloy had walked these trails for as long as she could remember, yet there was no denying the ever-present unease that accompanied her steps. These mountains belonged to no one.

Still, for all their dangers, the wilds held secrets—secrets Rost had taught her to uncover. They were a source of food, medicine, and survival for those who knew where to look. And Aloy did know. Under Rost’s patient but unrelenting guidance, she had learned to hunt both animal and machine, to distinguish between edible berries and poisonous ones, and to navigate the increasingly perilous wilderness. He had armed her with the skills to endure, even if the life they led was one of isolation and scarcity.

Despite the risks, Aloy sometimes wondered if the Nora truly understood what lay beyond their sacred borders. To them, venturing outside the Embrace was an unthinkable crime, punishable by banishment—the harshest punishment their tribe could mete out. Yet Aloy suspected that many of them would take the risk if they knew what was out there, beyond the lands they clung to so fiercely.

The Nora, for all their stoic bravado, placed their faith in the All-Mother—a deity they claimed resided within the heart of the mountain. They spoke of her protection as though it were an unbreakable shield, yet Aloy saw their fragility for what it was. If they ever left the safety of the Embrace, she knew they would crumble. Their rituals, their laws, their blind devotion to tradition—it would all fail them in the face of the wider world’s harsh realities.

“The Embrace,” Aloy muttered under her breath, a wry smile tugging at her lips. “Where you can die in safety.”

Her voice, though quiet, startled her. She glanced over her shoulder, half expecting someone to emerge from the trees and accuse her of blasphemy. Even here, even alone, she couldn’t fully shake the fear of being overheard. Talking to herself had become a habit over the years—a way to fill the silence of her solitude. But it was a habit she couldn’t afford to indulge too loudly.

As a child, Aloy had often given voice to her frustrations—about the unfairness of her outcast status, the suffocating rules of the Nora, and the hollowness of their so-called safety. Her words had earned her more than a few scoldings from Rost, whose temper, though rare, was formidable when roused. She had learned the hard way that mouthing off accomplished nothing but strained the fragile bond between them.

Over time, Aloy had mastered the art of silence. She buried her resentment deep, locking it away behind an indifferent mask. She kept her head down during training, made polite small talk when necessary, and avoided confrontation. The merchants who accepted her shards in exchange for meat or animal hides saw only what she allowed them to see: a quiet, determined outcast who asked for nothing and expected even less.

Yet, despite her best efforts to remain unseen and unremarkable, there was one person who saw her—truly saw her. One person who accepted her for all she was, outcast and all.

His name?

Varl.

Chapter Text

Aloy’s boots strike the uneven ground in a hurried rhythm as she weaves her way down the rugged mountain path. Each step is deliberate yet quick, her movements a balance of urgency and the innate caution bred into her by years of living in treacherous terrain. The air grows lighter as she descends, the dense smell of pine giving way to the crisp, open scent of the valley below. The path winds sharply, forcing her to pivot and steady herself with a hand on the rocky surface before it straightens out, leading upward once more into the hills.

She climbs with practiced ease, the ascent as familiar to her as breathing. Her goal is close now: the rock ledge hidden deep in the hillside, their secret place. It’s a small sanctuary cloaked by a wild thicket of berry bushes, an almost invisible barrier to any prying eyes. As Aloy pushes through the dense branches, the sunlight breaks through, painting the space in warm golden hues. And there he is—Varl—waiting for her just as he always does, his figure a steady anchor against the wide expanse of the valley.

A smile tugs at the corners of her lips before she can stop it, a rare expression that feels almost foreign to her face. Aloy has always been reserved with her emotions, her smiles fleeting and often hidden beneath the weight of her outcast status. Yet here, in this space, with Varl, she allows herself to let go, just a little. She knows he notices, too. He once teased her, saying that unless she was scaling cliffs or darting through mountain passes, he’d never seen her grin.

“Hey, ’Lo,” Varl calls out, his tone light and easy.

Aloy’s smile turns into a wry smirk as she rolls her eyes at the nickname. “’Lo.” It’s stuck ever since their first meeting, when she’d whispered her name so quietly he’d misheard it. She hadn’t bothered to correct him, and now it was too late—he was determined to keep it. She’s grown fond of it, though she’d never admit it.

“Look what I shot,” Varl announces, holding up a loaf of mountain trail bread skewered with an arrow. The absurd sight draws a laugh from Aloy, a genuine sound that surprises even her.

The bread is the kind you can only find at the cook stands in the larger settlements—dense, multigrain, and worlds away from the bland, dry loaves Rost occasionally bakes with whatever grain they scavenge. She steps closer, plucking the bread from the arrow, her fingers brushing its still-warm surface. A piece clings to the tip of the arrow, and she picks it off, popping it into her mouth. The taste is rich and nutty, a stark contrast to the usual rations she’s accustomed to. Her mouth waters as she savors it. Bread like this is a luxury, reserved for rare, special moments.

“Still warm,” she notes with a touch of admiration. Her green eyes flick up to meet his. “What did it cost you?”

“Just some fish,” Varl replies with a shrug, though there’s a glimmer of pride in his expression. “Think the old man at the stand was feeling sentimental. He even wished me luck today.”

Aloy snorts softly, shaking her head.

“Well, we’re all feeling sentimental today, aren’t we?” She reaches into her pouch and pulls out a pair of duck eggs, their smooth shells glinting faintly in the sunlight. “Rost left these for me this morning.”

Varl’s face lights up at the sight of them.

“Now isn’t that sweet?” he says with mock reverence, lifting his gaze as though to thank the heavens. “Thank you, Rost. We’ll feast like Sun-Kings today.” His tone suddenly shifts as he adopts a stilted, theatrical accent, mimicking Studious Vuadis, the endlessly cheerful man who comes once a year to recite the names of those chosen for the Sun Ring.

“I almost forgot! Rise up for the Calling!” Varl declares, plucking a handful of paleberries from the nearby bushes. He tosses one high into the air, aiming it toward Aloy.

She catches it effortlessly in her mouth, the delicate skin bursting under her teeth to release a sharp, tangy sweetness that momentarily overwhelms her senses. She swallows and shoots him a crooked grin.

“The Sun willing, may you return home!” she finishes, mimicking the ceremonial flourish Vuadis always adds.

The humor is a balm, a necessary reprieve from the unspoken weight pressing down on both of them. If they didn’t joke, Aloy knows fear would consume them entirely. The Carja accent, with its unnatural intonations, helps too—it’s so far removed from their world that even their darkest traditions sound absurd.

Varl pulls a small wooden knife from his pouch and begins slicing the bread, his movements careful and deliberate. As he works, Aloy finds herself watching him, studying his features in the quiet moment. She’s struck, as she often is, by how different they look—his hair is black and intricately braided, his skin deep and earthy, while her own hair is a riot of fiery curls, her complexion pale as untouched snow. His eyes remind her of worn leather, steady and grounded, while hers gleam with a sharp green hue, like the glint of a metal shard in sunlight. Yet despite their differences, there’s an ease between them, a balance. Where she is sharp edges and relentless drive, he is steady hands and quiet strength. If there’s another life beyond this one, Aloy often thinks, perhaps they were family there.

She remembers a story he once told her about his mother and Rost. Long ago, before everything fell apart, they had known one another. His mother, Sona, had even worked with Rost’s mate, the two of them running a modest potion shop that catered to the merchant class and the occasional wandering Sun Priest. Rost, in those days, would bring back medicinal herbs from his hunts to sell to Sona, who brewed remedies that saved more lives than anyone could count.

The thought stirs something bitter in Aloy. Sona must know Rost in ways she never will. Aloy tries to shove the resentment aside, to remind herself that Rost did the best he could. He cared for her, raised her as the Matriarchs demanded—but love? That was a different story. And though she tries to forgive him for it, she knows deep down that forgiveness has never come easily to her.

She looks back at Varl, who has just finished slicing the bread, and lets out a small sigh. For now, she lets the bitterness fade, focusing instead on this moment, their moment, before the world calls them back to its unrelenting demands.

Varl’s hands worked with deliberate precision as he spread soft Bighorn goat cheese onto the thin, hearty slices of Mountain bread. He carefully placed a single winterberry leaf atop each piece, his movements as measured as a craftsman finishing a delicate carving. Aloy, crouched a short distance away, was busy plucking plump berries from the thorny bushes nestled along the rocky slope. They had chosen their spot well—a sheltered nook, cradled within the jagged embrace of the mountains. From here, they remained unseen, the wilderness their veil, while their vantage provided an unbroken view of the winter valley below.

The scene was deceptively peaceful. In the valley, life persisted, stubborn and vibrant even in the season’s chill. Men and women gathered the last of the forageable greens, unearthed stubborn roots from the frostbitten soil, and cast nets into rivers where fish darted beneath the shimmering, ice-speckled surface. Above, the skies stretched wide and blue, unbroken save for the occasional wisps of pale cloud. A crisp breeze carried with it the faint, woody scent of snow on distant peaks.

For Aloy, the moment was almost too perfect, like something borrowed from a dream. She and Varl sat cross-legged on the cool stone, their shared meal simple but rich in flavor. The goat cheese melted into the warm bread, creamy and tangy, while the berries burst on her tongue, their sweetness balanced by a sharp tartness. For a fleeting moment, it felt as though this was all there was—all there needed to be.

“If only,” Aloy thought wistfully, her eyes scanning the vast expanse of snow-dusted wilderness. She allowed herself to imagine, just for a moment, a life free from obligations. Days like this, spent wandering the mountains with Varl, hunting, gathering, and feasting by the fire, seemed tantalizingly close. But reality loomed large. By two o’clock, they would be expected at Mother’s Heart, standing among the gathered crowd, awaiting the grim announcement. The candidates for the Sun-Ring would be named, and one of their own might well be sent to Meridian to fight, and most likely die, in the Carja’s blood-soaked arena.

“We could leave, you know,” Varl said suddenly, breaking the stillness. His voice was quiet, almost hesitant, as though the idea had slipped out before he could catch it.

Aloy turned to him, her brow furrowing. “Leave? What are you talking about? Leave the Sacred Lands? Where would we even go?”

“To the wilderness,” he said, his tone firmer now. “You and I. We could make it out there. Hunt, fish, live off the land. No Sun-Ring, no Nora laws. Just us.”

She stared at him, caught between disbelief and the weight of possibility. The idea was preposterous, reckless even, and yet...

“But we can’t,” he continued before she could respond. “Not really. Too many people rely on us.”

Aloy looked away, her gaze fixed on the horizon. The truth was, no one relied on her—not really. Rost, her only family, barely spoke to her these days, retreating further into his solitude with each passing week.

But Varl?

Varl was the son of Sona, the War Chief, and older brother to Vahla, a young Brave-in-training. His absence would leave a void, one the tribe couldn’t afford.

“If we left, would they even miss us?” Aloy asked softly, more to herself than to Varl. “Or would we just... disappear, like the others?”

Varl didn’t answer, and the silence stretched between them like an unspoken truth. Aloy imagined the faces of those they’d leave behind—Sona, fierce and unyielding, but with a mother’s love burning beneath her stern exterior. She’d search for her son until her last breath.

Aloy sighed, forcing the thoughts away. “I never want children,” she said abruptly, the words escaping before she could reconsider.

“I do,” Varl replied, surprising her.

“Of course, you do,” she snapped, irritation flaring. “You’re Nora. It’s practically in your DNA to want children.”

“Is that such a bad thing?” he shot back, his voice sharp.

Aloy rolled her eyes, pulling her knees to her chest and resting her chin on them. The conversation felt wrong, out of place. She didn’t understand why Varl was pushing these ideas—leaving, children, a future that seemed impossibly distant.

And yet, her mind wandered back to the day they met. She had been fifteen, scrawny and awkward, with a chip on her shoulder the size of the mountains around them. Varl, three years older, had already seemed so sure of himself. It had taken months for her to lower her guard, to believe that not every Nora despised her for reasons she didn’t understand. Varl had been patient, persistent, and eventually, he became the closest thing she had to a friend.

But friendship was all it was. Surely.

Wasn’t it?

She shook the thought away. “We should head back,” she said, her tone brisk. “Rost will notice if I’m gone too long.”

Varl nodded, his expression unreadable. “Let’s fish at the lake first,” he suggested. “Set up some nets, then gather in the woods. We’ll have enough for tonight.”

Tonight. The word hung heavy between them. Tonight, the chosen candidates would be announced, and the tribe would either celebrate or mourn. Families spared would drink and feast in relief, while those who had lost a child to the Sun-Ring would grieve behind closed doors.

By the time they reached the market at Mother’s Watch, their packs were full—fish, roots, berries, and more. Aloy hung back, watching as Varl traded with practiced ease. He bartered fish for bread and salt, bean-stems for wax, always fair, always polite.

When their business was done, they made their way to the Southern Gate. Aloy glanced at Varl, noting the tension in his jaw, the way his shoulders sagged beneath an invisible weight.

“See you in Mother’s Heart,” she said quietly, unsure of what else to offer.

Varl tried to smile but failed.

“Wear your best armour,” he said, his voice flat.

And with that, they parted, each carrying their burdens toward an uncertain future.

Chapter Text

Chapter Text

Silently, Nora from all corners of The Embrace begin to find their way to Mother’s Heart, making themselves known to the Carjan officials. The signing in of each eligible candidate provides the Carjan capital, Meridian, an opportunity to monitor the population of those outside their lands. Aloy likens the process to a farmer keeping his livestock in check. The thought alone makes her sick to her stomach. 

Once all eligible candidates, aged between eighteen and twenty-five, have been confirmed as present and accounted for, they are segregated into designated areas by age and gender, with boys siphoned off to the left and girls, to the right and the eldest positioned at the forefront while the youngest of candidates, like Aloy, linger toward the rear.

Families encircle the perimeter, clinging tightly to one another's hands. Yet amidst the crowd, there are those without loved ones at stake or those who've grown indifferent, desensitised perhaps, slipping among the throng, sickeningly placing bets on who of the candidates stands to be chosen. They speculate on their age, social standing, and whether tears will be shed at their departure from the Sacred Lands, most probably never to return. While many amongst the Nora avoid dealings with these opportunists (mostly Carjan Nobles), some tread cautiously, recognising their potential as informants, for who among us hasn't infringed upon the law? Varl could face daily repercussions for speaking with an Outcast, but the whims of those in power afford him, and in turn, Aloy, protection.

As the crowd swells, the space becomes more constricted, the atmosphere growing increasingly suffocating. Although Mother’s Heart is sizeable, easily the largest Nora settlement, it struggles to accommodate the entirety of approximately eight thousand Nora inhabitants, leading latecomers to overflow out of the settlement entirely, where Carja guards are stationed to relay any updates on the proceedings of the calling.

Finding herself among a group of eighteen-year-olds, Aloy exchanges a brief nod with a girl she recognises as Varl's younger sister, Vahla, before returning her focus to the makeshift stage before the Womb of The Mountain. Four chairs, one each for the High Matriarchs, Teersa, Lansra and Jezza and the other for Studious Vuadis, the insufferable Carja Sunpriest as well as a podium of sorts, not that Studious Vuadis required one, his voice having boomed across the Sacred Lands many a year before, adorn the makeshift stage. 

Aloy can feel her palms growing sweaty, her hands shaking as she tries to fixate her attention on anything but the next few hours. 

Two of the three chairs are occupied by Lansra and Jezza, a third by Studious Vuadis, sporting his trademark smug grin and blood red attire.

'How fitting,' Aloy thought darkly.

The two High Matriarchs exchange murmurs, glancing worriedly at the vacant seat meant for Teersa; just where was she?

A few moment later, Lansra steps up to the podium, launching into a familiar narrative. She speaks of the brutal war for resources and recounts the birth of the Nora people, emerging from the mountain, the womb of The Old ones, detailing the calamities that had befallen their ancestors and that which necessitated the worlds reformation as well as the subsequent Dark Days—a period of machine swarms and devastation upon the Earth - droughts, storms, fires, and the encroaching seas.

She touches on the tribal rebellion, easily quashed by the Carja and the subsequent consequences to all those who were and are not Carja. The 'Red-Raids' as the Nora call them, are an annual reminder of the Carja's supposed dominion, the consequences of dissent and are the Carja's way of keeping the other tribes in line as punishment for their rebellion, wherein each tribe must offer up one of their youth in tribute, to fight to the death in a coveted spectacle. The 'tributes' are then paired up, set from one boy and one girl of differing tribes, and are confined to an expansive outdoor arena, the Sun-Ring, where they must battle, man and machine alike, until only one remains—the victor.

The Carja's intent is clear: to assert its dominance by sacrificing non-Carja youth and therein flaunting a tribes powerlessness in a way that screams; 'Look how we take your youth and sacrifice
them and understand there’s nothing you can do. If you lift a finger, we will destroy every last one of you.'

By staging the yearly calling as a festive competition, the Carja seek to humiliate and torment non-Carja further. The lone survivor earns a life of comfort, and their district is lavished with rewards, primarily food, while the families of those that lay dead on foreign lands, continue to suffer.

Lansra concludes just as Teersa staggers onto the stage, out of breath and haggard looking, with a list of Nora past victors—only two in twelve years, both of whom have left the Sacred Lands. 

Lansra looks distressed. Since the proceedings of the calling will be reported back to Meridian, she knows that with Teersa as erratic as she is, the Nora will be seen as the laughingstock of the Eastern most stretches. She quickly tries to pull the attention back to the reaping by introducing the Carja Sun priest, set to announce the chosen candidates name before the tribe.

Studious Vuadis, undeterred by the spectacle, delivers his customary well-wishes, although his discomfort is palpable.

"The Sun Willing, may you return home!" he all but bellows.

Amidst the crowd, Aloy manages to catch Varl's gaze, his fleeting smile hinting at the grim irony of the situation. But Aloy's thoughts drift to Varl and his chances of being as candidate. Perhaps he entertains similar thoughts about Aloy, for his expression darkens before he averts his earthen eyes. If only she could reassure him that though their names are among them, there are still thousands of candidates...

Another moment and it's time for the calling.

Studious Vuadis, as customary, declares, "Our candidate has been chosen!" as he reaches from his pocket for a single slip of paper, no doubt scribbled with Carjan script.

The crowd holds its breath as the tension among the Nora crowd becomes palpable. They watch with their hearts in their throats, Aloy's included, as he unfolds the paper and reads the name aloud.

A single consonant finds itself carried on the winds that blow over the Sacred Lands.

"Aloy!"

Chapter Text

Once, a long time ago, while crouched in a smattering of drying grasses, waiting patiently for roaming machines to pass her by, Aloy had spotted a lone hare leaping just outside the trajectory of a prowling scrounger.

Having gone without meat for almost two weeks, the hare was too tempting of a meal to pass up. Feeling confident in her stealth and equally, her hunting abilities, Aloy had sprung out from her hiding spot from within the tall grasses, only to come face to face with a herd of ambling Lanechorns.

Whilst Aloy had been quick on her feet, retracting back into her hiding place, she had not been quick enough. The machines were alerted and quickly went barrelling straight through the grasses she had taken to hiding in. One of the Lancehorns, so focussed on charging away from the source of supposed threat, her, had knocked her to the ground, a metal hoof to her chest. The impact felt like it had knocked every ounce of air from her lungs, leaving her gasping for breath, struggling to inhale, to exhale, to do anything at all. She'd never before experienced such blinding shock and then, excruciating pain. 

That then is precisely how she feels now, grappling to recall how to breathe, rendered speechless, utterly stunned as her name echoes relentlessly within her mind. Someone clutches my arm, Vahla, , and she suspects it's because her legs had begun to give way and she'd caught her mid-fall.

There must be some error. This cannot be real. Aloy is one out of thousands of Nora candidates, heck, she's barely even Nora at all!

The likelihood of her being chosen was so slim that realistically, she hadn't even entertained the thought of her being the one selected. One name. One among thousands. The chances of being selected had been overwhelmingly in her favour. Yet, it didn't matter. Once and Outcast, always an Outcast. Who better to send then someone dispensable to the tribe? 

Aloy chokes out a laugh at the cruelty of it all.

Somewhere in the distance, Aloy hears the discontent murmurs of the crowd, a familiar reaction when a first time candidate, and a female at that, is chosen, because no one deems it fair.

And then she sees him—Rost—his complexion drained of colour, fists clenched at his sides, his eyes slipping toward the stage, passing through Aloy, as though she wasn't even there to land on the three High Matriarchs. Teersa is the only one who meets his gaze, and something unsaid passes between them that Aloy can only begin to hazard an understanding of. It's then that she notices the buckle of his furs, unlatched and slipping from his normally broad shoulders, now slumped forward. It's this small detail that snaps Aloy back to reality.

"Why?!" The choked cry escapes Aloy's throat, and her limbs begin to respond. "Why me?!" 

Aloy doesn't need to push through the throng; the other candidates part immediately, clearing a direct path to the stage. Aloy reaches the stairs, her legs like lead, head swimming with unanswered questions.

"Why?!" she gasps, her breath hitching in her lungs. "Why do you hate me so much?!"

There's a moment of confusion on the stage. The High Matriarch's exchanging uncomfortable glances between one another, while Studious Vuadis takes to peering down at Aloy like she's a bug that needs crushing.

Never in the decade that 'The Calling' has taken place, has a candidate, the anointed, ever questioned their name being called. And to question their selection, is to question the Matriarch's authority, and in so, the Carja authority vested in them.

It's then that Rost steps forward, his hands coming to snake around Aloy's arms, forcing her to face him.

"Aloy, do not be a fool!" He all but scathes. "What happens now is clear; accept the role the tribe has given you!"

"The Nora..." Aloy stammers. "My whole life, I’ve never once been considered as one of you. Outcast simply for drawing breath, your scapegoat for constant vitriol, from ones so young as babes, and you would choose me, the Outcast girl, your curse, to represent your tribe in the red-raids?" Aloy all but sneers.

Aloy remembers clearly, the filthy looks people would give if they saw her close to the settlements, the blatant insults passed in her direction whenever she made to trade within town.

'I can’t hear anything! No, not a thing!' Nora Braves would say as she attempted to sell some hunted game she'd gathered.

'I CAN’T HEAR ANYTHING!' Nora children would shout whenever she'd made an attempt at greeting them with a gentle 'hello'.

'Goddess! Why won’t she leave me alone?' Others would say, as if she weren't even there, looking through her rather than at her.

'I just want to go about my day.' Merchants would say as the fobbed her off, the expertly carved machine parts seen as lesser than simply because of who, what, she was. 

"Why am I an outcast? Why choose me as your anointed?" Aloy spits.

"Aloy... this is not the time." Rost says wearily, but Aloy does not hear him.

"Who was my mother?" Aloy takes to asking the Matriarchs, all of whom look down at her pitifully.

"Aloy, that's enough! I’ve told you before, that is not for us to know. You were just a newborn when the Matriarchs brought you to me." Rost chokes back his tears. "Tribal Law forbids you question your selection any further." Rost tries to reason.

"It does, and I don’t care. I know what duty means for you, Rost, but all tribal law has ever done for me is take things away. And that’s not going to happen again." Aloy shakes in anger.

"Aloy. For years you’ve trained only for yourself. As the anointed, the candidate, it will be your duty to fight for your tribe -" 

"My tribe?! You said I wouldn’t need them!" Aloy cuts him off.

Rost considers her for a moment before answering.

"But I never said the tribe wouldn’t need you." Rost states calmly, taking in the shaking form of the girl before him. "The strength to stand alone, Aloy, is the strength to make a stand. To serve a purpose greater than yourself. That is the lesson you must learn as the candidate for the calling. And remember it… after the calling, and after I am gone." Rost reasons before continuing. "This will be your last day in the Embrace, your last day as an outcast. Use the time to set your mind on the challenges before you. When it is time for you to go beyond Nora lands, I will be waiting for you along the way."

I understand the final lesson, Rost, but if I’m going to stand for something, it’ll have to be something I believe in."

"Then I hope you find it, Aloy. I hope you do." Rost confides.

Aloy nods firmly before turning back to the Matriarchs and Studious Vuadis.

"Very well then, you shall have your candidate, but know this; I am not your anointed, I don't belong to you." Aloy states, her voice ringing out across Mother's Heart and into the Sacred Lands. "There's a whole world beyond these borders, whole tribes full of people just as good as you. And because of them," Aloy points a finger at Studious Vuadis, the Carja Sun Priest, "It's all at risk." 

"Why the nerve of you!" Studious Vuadis all but shouts, but Aloy is not deterred.

"So take me to your Sun-Ring, Carja filth, and I'll give you a show worthy of every drop of blood that these innocent people have spilt simply for your petty whims." 

It is then that something unexpected unfolds.

Aloy finds herself taken aback as, gradually, members of the crowd begin a gesture uncommonly seen among the Nora people: pressing the clenched fist of their right hand to their chest and bowing. It's a gesture laden with meaning, rarely seen outside of funerals—it signifies gratitude, admiration, and farewell to someone of value.

Aloy finds herself on the brink of tears, but Teersa intervenes just in time. She steps forward from the stage, placing a gentle arm around Aloy's shoulders in congratulations.

Despite her somewhat dishevelled appearance and strong odour of salvebrush, she exclaims her admiration for Aloy, declaring her to have more "spirit" than anyone else among the Nora tribe. Her somewhat erratic behaviour continues as she addresses the audience, or perhaps taunts the Carja with their newly appointed, and woefully unpredictable, Nora candidate.

Though confused by the turn of events, Aloy is thankful for the distraction. With people's attention focused on Teersa's spectacle, she manages to compose herself, suppressing the urge to cry.

Gazing into the distance, Aloy recalls the morning's climb with Varl, briefly yearning for the freedom of leaving the Sacred Lands and navigating the wilderness with him by her side. Aloy's musings are interrupted by the grating sound of Studious Vuadis's lilting voice cutting across the clearing once more.

"What an eventful day!" he chirps, adjusting his askew hood, before continuing on with his drawl. "But there's more excitement in store! The Nora have made their choice of candidate, yet the question remains: with whom shall she be matched? The revelation of this answer is imminent!"

The crowd stares up at him, their eyes glazing over at the ridiculousness of the man before them.

Steadying himself with one hand placed on the podium, Studious Vuadis reaches into his pocket once more, retrieving the slip of paper that will seal Aloy's fate in the Carjan arena. Before Aloy can begin to feel anything, Studious Vuadis shouts out.

"A match blessed by the Sun; Nora and Tenakth!" Studious Vuadis announces before sneering down at Aloy. "Who better for the Nora Savage than a Tenakth Barbarian? By way of word, I hear he's quite the ferocious warrior. Kotallo, I believe they call him.“ Vuadis states before digging the blade in deeper. "I look forward to seeing your blood spilt upon Carja land, Outcast."

Aloy smirks up at the vile excuse for a man.

"The only blood to spilt will be yours, when my spear runs you through." 

Studious Vuadis is so taken aback by Aloy's venomous remark that all he can do is stare down at her, his mouth agape.

Chapter Text

"A match blessed by the Sun; Nora and Tenakth!" Studious Vuadis had announced before lowing his voice so that only Aloy could make out his next words. "By way of word, I hear he's quite the ferocious warrior. Kotallo, I believe they call him."

Ally’s head snaps up in recognition of the name, though never having once spoken to it's owner.

Kotallo.

The boy that had only ever existed in the rare stories that Rost had told over campfire, was to now be partnered with her in an arena meant only for death?

Where was the fairness in that?

Aloy shakes her head in disbelief.

No, fortune has never favoured her in these things, why would today be any different?

Squaring her shoulders, Aloy sighs, thinking back to what little she knows of the Tenakth and of Kotallo.

Not unlike the Banuk to the North, the Tenakth are the westernmost tribe of what once was the North American continent, inhabiting and controlling the Clan Lands within the Forbidden West. Aloy recalls how Rost had detailed the tribes division; three clans, Desert, Lowland and Sky, all vastly different, having spent much of their history warring among themselves, their one shared trait; Aggression, an unsatiated bloodthirst and derision toward any who weren't Tenakth.

But there were those among the tribe, though few, who were unlike this. One such individual was a budding youth, at least in the time that Rost had been out west in pursuit of his mate and daughters killers, who was kind hearted beneath his bristly exterior. 

It had been Kotallo and his squad that had welcomed an outlander, Rost, into their shelter during a particularly harsh whiteout, a young Kotallo, no older than 10 winters, who had worked tirelessly through the night to help ease Rost's pain from a deep gash (courtesy of a longleg) across his calf by sharing his rations and medkit supplies. It had been Kotallo who had vouched for the outlanders claims of necessity in searching their lands for the killers of his family, despite the ire of his clan commander, and the punishment of both cleaning the latrines for a week and solitary guard tower duties at an outpost otherwise abandoned to the machines.

It had been Kotallo, descended from the Sky Clan, a clan that embodied all that was bitter in the world, that had been one of the kindest within it, even when custom and culture did not call for him to be so, least of all to an Outlander.

Tales of this Tenakth youth, from a different world entirely to Aloy's, had been Aloy's companion on lonely days in the wilds, a comfort on cold nights in the Embrace and a source of courage that even those born to a certain fate, could alter their own destiny.

Before her, Studious Vuadis begins reading Carja scripts on what is to follow now that the Nora have selected their candidate, but Aloy does not listen.

'Why him?' She wonders, trying her hardest to convince herself there's no deeper meaning to this pairing.

She and Kotallo are strangers, barely even acquaintances. The two knew of one another, stories of the other being told over campfires burning across thousands of miles, may a year ago. Beyond that, there was nothing to keep them from slitting one another’s throats. After all, there could only be one left standing in the Sun-Ring. 

As the Nora break out into their parting anthem, Aloy resigns herself to the grim reality of being with Kotallo in the Sun-Ring in Meridian. Perhaps someone else would end his life before she did. But in the unpredictable arena, anything can happen.

Chapter Text

As soon as the Nora parting anthem comes to an end, Aloy is taken into custody. Her hands remain unbound but a group of Carja guards marches her to the entrance of the mountain. Aloy figures that maybe a candidate has tried to escape in the past, though she's never heard of such tales happening.

Once within the mouth of the mountain, Aloy is led to a small room and left alone. It's the most luxurious place she's ever been in, with immaculately kept velvet throws and intricately carved chaises and chairs, no doubt of Carja make. She knows the fabric is velvet because Varl's mother, the Nora War Chief, has a set of armour that features panels of the fabric, woven by expert Nora stitchers. 

Sitting on the couch, Aloy can't help but run her fingers over the fabric repeatedly. It calms her as she prepares for the next hour—the time allotted for candidates to say goodbye to their loved ones, to Aloy, that is a select few.

Aloy knows can't afford to get upset, that she can't leave this room with puffy eyes and a red nose. Crying isn't an option. The eyes of the Nora ever scrutinising of the outcast girl.

Gathering herself at the sound of approaching foot steps, Aloy's resolve almost crumbles when her eyes land on Rost. Without thinking, she reaches out to him, looping her hands around his neck, resting her head in the crook between his neck and shoulders, the way she had done many a time as an infant. 

Rost wraps his arms around Aloy's shaking frame. Neither say anything for a number of minutes, simply taking comfort in one another's warmth. Minutes pass and without realising it, Aloy begins to sob, biting down on her lip hard enough to draw blood in an effort to keep herself from crying out.

"I'm scared, Rost." Aloy manages to get out between sobs. 

He hushes her gently, running a calloused hand through the tangles of her beaded hair.

"Have faith, Aloy. In you, anything is possible." He assures her.

Aloy takes heed of his words, tightening her grip around Rost's necks for a single moment, before relenting, her arms dropping to her sides. She looks at the man before her her guardian, her father, and gives him a soft smile.

"Any final lessons before I head to Meridian?" Aloy asks him, hoping for some last minute advice for how she might walk away from this, whole.

"No, you’ve learned every lesson the wilds have to teach." Rost concedes, shaking his head.

"It was you who taught me, not the wilds. Not sure my bow and spear will be enough in the Sun-Ring, though." Aloy confides.

"It is with bow and spear that you’ll win what you’ve what you’ve wanted all these years. Aloy. Answers." Rost states.

Steeling herself, Aloy answers.

"I’m ready to do this. See you back home when all this is over?"

"You will not find me there, Aloy." Rost says, his voice twinged with sadness. "Here. Take this, to… remember."

Rost takes a small pendant from one of the pouches at his waist. He takes one of Aloy's hands in his own and places a small pendant on a length of leather upon it.

Aloy looks down at the pendant; she recognises it as having once belonged to Alana, Rost's daughter. It was one of his most prized possessions, a physical memento of the life his daughter could have lived, had it not been cut so tragically short.

"Rost, I cannot take this." Aloy says, almost forcibly shoving the pendant back into Rost's hand. He shakes his head in refusal, closing his palm into fists.

"It is mine to give to whom I will. Carry it with you on your journey, Aloy, so that you may know that wherever life might take you, there will always be somewhere for you to return to."

Aloy stares at him wide-eyed, relenting in her attempts to return the pendant to it's owner. 

Lifting the pendant to her eyes Aloy takes in it's finer details. She notes that is crafted from finely carved bone, she suspects that Rost wilted the bone down himself, a small blue bead within the centre; the represent a machines eye, perhaps? Whatever the meaning behind the shape and style, Aloy can't deny that the pendant is truly beautiful, the likes of which she's never seen on any other Nora before.

She wraps the length of leather around her neck, tying the two pieces in a small knot beneath her braids. The pendant comes to sit just beneath her breast plate.

"Rost... why are you talking like we’ll never see each other again?" Aloy asks, noting the hard lines upon Rost's face. "No… No…"

"You should be with the tribe. And I will always be an outcast." Rost relents.

"But I told you, I have that figured out! I’ll come to you in secret. I’ll be the one breaking the law, not you! You don’t even have to talk to me!" Aloy pleads desperately.

"This… attachment to me will only hold you back. It is my wish that you embrace the tribe. You’ve lived in isolation long enough."

"Not until now, I didn’t..." Aloy chides.

"For your sake. I must go where you will never find me. This is goodbye." Rost tries to placate the girl before him whom he can see is growing increasingly panicked.

"No. It’s not. You taught me how to track. Wherever you go, I can follow." Aloy says, a scowl upon her face.

"Not this time." Rost tries to conclude. 

"This time… and every time. I’ll be wearing this when I find you." Aloy says, standing firm in her resolve.

"May All-Mother bless you, Aloy." Rost says.

And then he's gone, having turned to exit the room. The faint scent of cedar and salvebrush trailing after him.

Aloy watches him go, her heart heavy in her chest.

"And you, Rost, and you."

Chapter Text

Someone else enters the room, and when Aloy looks up, she's surprised to see that it’s Teb, he Nora Stitcher she once rescued from a swarm of machines. She can’t believe he’s come to visit her. Though their interactions have been sparse since that fateful event, there's a shared familiarity between them. Aloy acknowledges their acquaintance and recognises Teb's even deeper connection to Rost; but why has he come to see her?

She knows that whenever Rost had traded with the stitchers located within Mother's Heart, Teb had always snuck in extra sets of armour or garments meant for Aloy, stuffed secretly within the confines of the carefully wrapped packages Rost would strap to his back. Aloy figures that it was his way of saying 'thank you' for having saved him all those years ago when at the time, he hadn't had the chance to do so.

Teb sits awkwardly on the edge of one of the plush chairs. He’s a lanky, slight-shouldered, gentle faced man with small scars along his hands from years of pricking them with sewing needles. 

He pulls a fur wrapped package from his pouch and holds it out to Aloy. She looks at it a moment before tentatively opening it to find a pair of  what has to be the finest hunting gloves Aloy has ever seen. Even with all the shards she's saved over the years. these are a luxury she could never afford.

"Thank you," She says, shocked at his needless generosity.

Teb's not an overly talkative man at the best of times, always having been fairly reserved, but what words he does choose to impart, hold a weight meant to make a difference to those who hear them.

"I've always wanted to thank you for saving me all those years ago, but I didn't think simply sneaking something into Rost's pouch was the way I wanted to go about it." Teb admits before continuing. "I''d be honoured if you put those gloves to use in the Sun-Ring." 

"The honour would be all mine." Aloy confides, a soft smile gracing her lips.

A few more moments pass between them and Aloy quickly finds she can't think of anything else to say, so the pair sit in silence until a Carja guard summons Teb from the room. He rises and coughs to clear his throat.

"I’ll keep an eye on Rost. Make sure he’s coping."

Aloy feels some of the pressure in her chest lighten at his words. People deal with her, but they are genuinely fond of Rost. Maybe there will be enough fondness among the Nora to keep him company on days he grows lonely.

Aloy's next guest is also unexpected. Arana walks straight to her. She is not weepy or evasive; instead, there’s an urgency about her tone that takes Aloy by surprise.

"They let you wear one thing from your tribe in the arena. One thing to remind you of home. Will you wear this?" She holds out a small wooden tub in her hand, the exterior featuring depictions of Nora landmarks.

"Nora paint?" Aloy asks. Wearing a token from the Nora is about the last thing on her mind.

"Here, I’ll apply it for you; is that all right?" Arana doesn’t wait for an answer; she just leans in and swipes several strokes across Aloy's forehead, around her eyes and across her cheeks. Aloy recognises the pattern as the Nora Seeker face paint, worn by select few among the tribe. "Promise you’ll wear our colours into the arena, Aloy?" she asks. "Do you promise?"

"I promise." Aloy says. A pendant. Gloves. Face paint. She's been given more gifts in a single day than her entire life. Arana gives her one more—a tight hug. Then she’s gone, and Aloy's left thinking that maybe Arana really has been her friend all along.

Finally, Varl is there. Maybe there is nothing romantic between them, maybe there is, but it doesn't matter for when he opens his arms, Aloy don’t hesitate to walk into them. Varl's body is familiar to her—the way it moves, the smell of wood smoke, even the sound of his heartbeat she knows from quiet moments on a hunt—but this is the first time she really feels it, lean and hard-muscled against her

"Listen," he says. "Getting a spear should be pretty easy, but you’ve got to get your hands on a bow. That’s your best chance."

"They don’t always have bows," Aloy says, thinking of the year she'd heard when there were only horrible spiked maces that the candidates had to bludgeon one another to death with.

"Then make one, I know you're more than capable." says Varl. "Even a weak bow is better than no bow at all."

Aloy has tried copying Rost's bows with poor results. It’s not that easy. Even he had to scrap his own work sometimes.

"I don’t even know if there’ll be wood," she admits. Aloy had heard whispers amongst Nora Braves that one year, the Carja had tossed everybody into a landscape of nothing but boulders, sand, and scruffy bushes. Many contestants were bitten by venomous snakes, stung by scorpions or went insane from thirst.

"There’s almost always some wood," Varl assures her. "At least there has been since that year half of the candidates died of cold. Not much entertainment in that." 

Aloy grimaces at the emphasis he places on the word. It's true that that particular year was considered very anti-climactic in the Carja capital, all those quiet, bloodless deaths. Since then, there’s usually been wood to make fires.

"Yes, there’s usually some," Aloy concurs.

"'Lo, it’s just hunting. You’re the best hunter I know," says Varl.

“It’s not just hunting. They’re armed. They think,” Aloy says.

“So do you. And you’ve had more practice. Real practice,” he says. “You know how to kill.”

“Not people,” Aloy says, her voice breaking.

“How different can it be, really?” says Varl grimly.

The terrible thing is that Aloy knows that if she can forget they’re people, it will feel no different to hunting down machines.

The Carja guards arrive too soon, and when Varl pleads with them for more time, they begin to orcibly take him away. Panic sets in.

"Keep an eye out for Rost, please!" Aloy shouts, clinging desperately to Varl's hand.

"I won’t! You know I won’t! Aloy, remember I—" he begins, but the Carja guards pull the pair apart and slam the door, leaving Aloy to never know what Varl had wanted her to remember.

Chapter Text

It’s a short trek from Mother's Heart to where the waiting Carja entourage are found. They have with them ornate carriages and creatures to pull them, the likes of which Aloy has never seen before. She thinks they look a bit like Chargers, similar looking horns protruding from the sides of their head and hooved feet, pawing at the ground much like the Chargers do when they're scrounging for biomatter.

Aloy was right not to cry. The gate leading out of the Embrace is is swarming with Nora and Carja alike, their eyes trained on Aloy's face. Too bad for them that Aloy has had a lot of practice at wiping her face clean of emotion, and she does it now. She catches a glimpse of herself in the reflection of one of the Carja nobles silly looking hand mirror and feels a grim satisfaction when she notes that she appears almost bored. She sees Varl and his sister among the crowd, giving them a sad smile, before noting that Rost is nowhere to be seen, true to his word.

Standing there Aloy finds her mind wandering to her Tenakth counterpart; she wonders what his send-off would have looked like. Would there have been those mourning his departure? Would his parents have been torn asunder at the thought at losing their son? Siblings clinging to his arms or legs, relenting their grip only by force of the Carja guards? She wonders what his strategy would be in going into the arena—to appear weak and frightened, reassuring the other candidates that he was no competition, then striking when least expected? This approach had worked well for Talanah Khane Padish, a Carja defector who'd been thrown into the Sun-Ring a few years back. She seemed like a snivelling, pontsy Noble until there were only a few candidates left, then revealed she could kill viciously. Clever as it was, it seems an odd strategy for a Tenakth warrior, given his undoubtedly meticulous training and martial prowess. No. Kotallo would face his foes head-on, any softness he might have once possessed having been quashed by years of clan wars and sacrifices to the Carja's cruel campaign, Aloy concludes.

There are few moments where Aloy simply stands there, waiting while the Carja check that everything is in order prior to their departure. It is only then that Aloy is permitted to enter one of the ornate Carja carriages, its seats plush and warm. 

A moment longer and the doors to the carriage mercifully close behind her. The carriage begins to move immediately.

The speed takes her breath away. For creatures so large and lumbering, they're surprisingly light-footed, Aloy thinks, staring blanking out of the carriage window. 

Of course, she's never travelled any other way but foot, never has she left the 'safety' of Embrace and now she's done both in under half an hour. Her thoughts are swimming,  a pounding headache beginning to form just above the space where skull meets spine as she comes to the realisation that her journey to the Carja capital will take less than a week.

Through her explorations of Old World ruins as a child, Aloy had learnt that the Carja capital city was built between two Old World states known as Eastern Utah and Western Colorado and that the Sacred Lands spanned pretty much the entirety of the Colorado region. Curious, she'd tried to find data on other Old World locations and had discovered that Banuk territory fell within the region of  'Yellowstone', an old nature reserve, which was mostly in a place known as Northwest Wyoming. Her delving had led her to discover that 'Utah' is claimed by the Carja and the Oseram, 'Nevada' is predominantly controlled by both Utaru and their less than earth loving neighbours, the Tenakth, while the Quen have settled on small segments of what was once known as 'California'. 

The candidate carriage is fancier than even the room within the mountain back at Mother's Heart. Plush velvet seats and gold-leaf corbels adorn near every inch of the carriage interior. Aloy wonders in this is how every Carja lives, but having heard that slavery was still accepted among high society, she figured that even the Carja had those that were seen as lesser than.

An hour or so into the journey a Carja guard announces that they will be stopping overnight in a settlement called 'Day Tower' where her entourage would join with the entourage responsible for escorting the Tenakth candidate to Meridian.

Aloy's heart beats almost painfully in her chest.

Just a few more hours and the boy who had only ever existed in stories told over the campfire would no longer be flame but instead, flesh, very much real, very much alive. 

Aloy takes to picking at her nails as the hours draw on, the endless wilds becoming a blur of indiscernible trees, rocks and machine. It must be some time in the early morning when the entourage arrives at their destination, Day Tower. 

Tired and with a numb backside, Aloy is all too glad when the Carja guards lead her into one of the buildings adorning the outskirts of the settlement. Yet to see any signs of the Tenakth entourage, it is here that Aloy learns that they'll be staying in Day Tower at least two days while the Carja entourage resupplies. She's told that each candidate have been allocated their own chambers, complete with a plush bed, a separate dressing area, and a private bathroom with hot and cold running water. Nora don’t have hot water at home unless they boil it. Heck, unlike the Carja, the Nora lack even proper plumbing.

Standing dumb founded in the large space (the one room being larger than her and Rost's entire cabin back in the Embrace), Aloy takes to rifling through some of the chests she finds filled with fine clothes, having been told by Studious Vuadis that she can do whatever she wants, wear whatever she wants, and to simply stay out of the way until supper in an hour.

At a loss for how else to fill her time, Aloy peels off the armour Rost had entrusted to her only that morning, stripping naked before finding herself filling the large bath tub in the bathroom. Easing herself into it, Aloy revels in the warm water, likening it to a warm summer rain soaking through her skin. Whilst Aloy won't deny she appreciates the warmth of the water, the night having turned quite cool, she refuses to add any of the scented Carja oils to the water, already feeling a tinge at sadness as she watches the water turn blue with streaks of her face paint, like pieces of herself was dissolving in the very water she soaked in. To use the scented oils would simply erase any sense of 'home', of Rost, and of the only life she's ever known.

It's only when her skin becomes pruney that Aloy clambers her way out of the bath tub, her bare skin red from the heat of the water.

Aloy dries her hair hastily, not having bothered removed the beads or braids that adorn her head, dressing in a simple shift, an almost navy blue in colour, it having been the least offensive thing she could find in the Carjan chest.

A moment later one of the Carja guards knocks at her door, no doubt having been sent to collect her for supper.

Wordlessly, Aloy follows the guard through the narrow, rocking corridor to a dining room with polished panelled walls and a table set with breakable dishes.

It's at this table that Kotallo sits, just as out of place in these foreign lands as Aloy. 

His eyes lock with hers and it's like the foundation beneath Aloy's feet, crumbles.

He is everything and anything but what Rost's stories had painted him to be. Many a year has seen many a change to the young man that sits before her, but there is one thing that has not changed; the undeniable kindness within his gaze, revealed only briefly to the young woman that stands before him.

"It's you, isn't it, Aloy?" Comes the sound of his voice. 

The sound of her name rolling off his tongue is enough to unravel Aloy entirely.

Chapter Text

Aloy stands by the doorway, her legs both heavy and shaking in their weight.

Kotallo makes to stand, pushing his chair out from underneath him unceremoniously. He takes a step toward Aloy, then thinks the better of it, unsure of how she would react were he to crowd her personal space. She already seemed so out of place before him, her slight frame sinking in on itself, as though to protect herself from some sort of onslaught.

Kotallo stands before her, an almost calm about him. She wonders he can feel so, with the knowledge that all that awaits him is death, whether his own or someone else's, in the Carja Sun-Ring.

He stands before her and so, unabashedly, Aloy drinks him in, unsure of where it is that she should look or react. 

Gone is the boy from Rost's stories; the boy who'd shown kindness in the face of adversity, the boy who'd vouched for an Outlander, knowing he'd be punished for doing so, the boy who'd only ever existed in the furthest stretches of Aloy's imagination. That boy was here and he was now standing before her, every bit of him, a man. 

She notes, fleetingly, that Kotallo stands tall, his robust physique commanding attention. His frame is adorned by a woven, albeit, sleeveless, beige cuirass and a similar looking knee-length set of tassets, accented with snow white feathers. Aloy muses that the presence he exudes is nothing less than distinct.

Hand carved blue, pink and white beads embellish his attire, complementing the intricate designs of his armour. A set of protective shoulder guards adorn his broad shoulders, while arm guards shield his forearms. Wooden beads adorn his neck, adding a rustic charm to his ensemble. She wonders if these had been carved by himself, members of his clan or perhaps by his parents. Whatever the case, the beads looked well-worn, well-loved even.

Unlike many of his Tenakth brethren, who prefer barefootedness, at least so much as Aloy had been told, Kotallo has opted for sturdy sandals, coupled with knee-high shinguards that wrap around his toned legs, the lengths of rope coming just shot of behind his knees.

Aloy's eyes trail up from Kotallo's feet, dragging slowly across his freshly inked shins, calves and thighs, up past his equally as inked ribbed chest and to his face. She notes that he is a strikingly handsome young man, uncommonly so, with jet-black hair, styled in braids that are held back with a length of leather, the sides of his head shaved back to stubble in a way that almost looks like machine teeth framing his face, adding a touch of unrepentant fierceness to his appearance. The telltale signs of cauliflower ears on his left side hint at past battles, a testament to his resilience and strength.

Their eyes lock and Aloy is struck with the overwhelming sense that for one so young, surely not much older than she, Kotallo appears world weary. His full lips are set downward and his expression almost impassive, his brow set in an unyielding scowl. His eyes though, Aloy catches, despite being lined with deep bags beneath them, hold a gentleness she had not unexpected. Was the warmth within them meant for her, or was she simply reading him wrong entirely?

Stammering, Aloy manages to find her voice.

”How-“

”Rost. He would send us letters.” Kotallo answers simply, as if the simplicity of his answer is explanation enough. When Aloy merely looks at him quizzically, as though she expects more of an answer, he relents. “Not many among my people are capable of reading,” Kotallo grimaces, as though ashamed of the admission. “The Sky Clan Commander is of the belief that we do not need to, and that such ability and knowledge likens us to our Carja enemy.” Kotallo explains, watching Aloy intently as she takes in all that he has to say. “There are few, among the Chaplains of our tribe however, that posses such skills. It is through them, that I came to know you.”

Aloy finds herself most perplexed by this; she had not known Rost could read or write foreign glyphs, nor had she ever been privy to the fact that Rost had sent letters across many a foreign land and territory to 'converse' with Tenakth soldiers he’d once met, many a year ago. She ponders on what else she did not know of the man that had raised her.

“Is he well?’” Kotallo asks, snapping Aloy from her reverie. 

Aloy nods, a far-off look in her eye.

Uncomfortable with the topic of conversation, Aloy looks for an out, finding it in the subject of their frivolous Carja captors.

"Where’s Vuadis?” she finds herself asking.

"Come now, Aloy, it's 'Studious Vuadis'," Kotallo chides in a put on sing-song Carja accent before answering Aloy's question. "Last I saw him, he said he was going to take a nap. The journey from your 'Savage East' was all too vexing for him."

“Well, it’s been an exhausting day for him no doubt,” says Aloy jokingly, surprised at how easily she responds to Kotallo's dry wit and dark sense of humour. Truthfully though, she thinks them both relieved by the Carja sun priests absence, and who could blame them really?

Their moment is interrupted by one of the Carja guards announcing that supper was to be served imminently.

The pair awkwardly take their place opposite one another at the ornate dining table, a table carved by Carja artisans from solid 'mahogny', Aloy had heard one of the guards comment wistfully as they'd passed her by earlier in the day, unsure of what to expect from the impending meal.

The supper, Aloy finds perplexingly, comes in courses: a rich serving of Grazer's bounty, wheatslice salad, Sun-seared ribs, Shearside Mutton are all served with a boundless helping of Mesa bread, followed by a delicious looking platter of Fruit of Fire and a Sourfruit Tart.

Studious Vuadis, who had taken to sitting at the head of the table, keeps reminding them to save space because there’s more to come, but Aloy is stuffing herself. She's never had food this good, and the best thing she can do before being set loose in the Sun-ring is put on a few kilos.

“At least you two have decent manners,” says Studious Vuadis as she and Kotallo struggle to finish the main course. “The pair last year ate everything with their hands like savages. It completely upset my digestion.”

The pair he'd seen to last year were two kids from the Banuk and Tenakth clans who had never had enough to eat, the recent blight plaguing the land and harsh growing conditions having seen to that. Table manners were surely the last thing on their minds.

Kotallo is a son of the Tenakth, and Rost had taught Aloy to eat properly, so yes, the pair can handle utensils. But Aloy finds that she hates the sun priest's comment so much that she makes a point of eating the rest of her meal with her fingers, wiping my hands on the tablecloth. Much to Aloy's genuine surprise, and equal gratitude, Kotallo does the same, the pair making the sun priest purse his lips tightly.

With the meal over, Aloy finds herself fighting to keep the food down. She notices that Kotallo looks a little green under his facepaint, too. Their stomachs aren’t used to such rich fare, but Aloy figures if she can hold down Cren's concoction of rat meat, boar entrails, and tree bark—a winter specialty—Aloy's determined to hang on to this.

Bellies full to the point of discomfort, the pair are led to another lavish room to be told of the recap of the callings across nations.

One by one, Studious Vuadis recounts other callings: the names called, the devastation among the crowd, families torn apart. The pair listen intently as they're told of their competition. All of whom make an impression in their own unique way. A monstrous man who stems from the Oseram, a fair-faced woman with warm skin not so unlike Varl's from the Utaru, a Banuk Sharman, his eyes sharp and an oddly bubbly young woman of the Quen. 

The Carja Sun Priest recounts Kotallo's selection, and Aloy can't help but to find the story to be almost haunting.

Aloy learns, much to Kotallo's chagrin she's sure, that the man that sits beside her was born to the Tenakth's Sky Clan, raised by his squad in the Bulwark, a kind of impenetrable stone fortress, after having lost his parents in a clan skirmish. As he'd grown older, Kotallo became known amongst his clan as an accomplished fighter, catching the eye of Tekotteh, the Sky Clan's commander. 

Though his martial prowess and various deeds for the clan made him a hero amongst the Sky Clan, it became apparent through Studious Vuadis's ramblings that Tekotteh secretly feared Kotallo, thinking the young man would become a rival to his command.  Failing to realise that Kotallo had no interest in rising above his station and so to that end, Tekotteh had selected Kotallo for the calling, sickeningly hoping that he would fail to survive.

Kotallo, it seemed, recognised the "honour" guised as an exile he couldn't refuse, a betrayal from the man he had considered a father.

Aloy's heart felt heavy in her chest. Such cruelty by one's own clan was not a concept that was foreign to her, but she at least had never been part of her clan to begin with, but for Kotallo, it was all he'd ever known. Aloy can't begin to fathom what he must feel; to come to the realisation that he was no more than a plaything, to be used however his commander had seen fit, only for the man he considered to be a father, to tire of and get rid of him completely.

She can see the hurt in Kotallo's expression, his eyes avoiding hers, settling instead on his clenched fists that shake within his lap.

Lastly, and perhaps finally, Studious Vuadis comes to recall Aloy's own selection. 

The desperation in her voice had been clear as he recalls the way she'd shouted her strangled pleas at the Nora High Matriarchs, her voice falling on deaf ears, Rost, the 'honourable outcast', by the words of Studious Vuadis, gripping at her arms, imploring her to accept the tribe's role for her, Aloy's fiery declaration, to not be known as Aloy of the Nora, but Aloy despite the Nora.

Vuadis, of course, fails to include the skewed state of his hood, coming to sneer at Aloy.

“You, Nora, have a lot to learn about presentation. A lot about proper behaviour.”

Kotallo unexpectedly laughs.

"That's rich, coming from one such as yourself, Vuadis." Kotallo snarls.

"Watch your tongue, boy. There's an arena waiting for you. I'd hate for anything to happen to you before we arrived in Meridian." The Sun Priest replies coolly.

Kotallo's only response is to smirk.

As if any of these fledgling Carja stood a chance of taking him down.

Aloy looks on at the situation unfolding before her. She pities the Carja Sun-Priest, but finds more than anything, that she's glad she'll have Kotallo by her side in the arena, come what may.

Chapter Text

As if it were possible, another round of deserts is brought before them and Aloy thinks she’ll be physically ill just at the sight of more food. Meeting Kotallo’s gaze, seeing that he appears to feel much the same, the pair fail to notice the sound of ruckus coming from one of the rooms just down the hallway.

At that moment, someone, a man Aloy suspects, dressed in opulent Carja robes enters the dining space, his steps unsteady.

"Did I miss supper?" he mumbles, his speech slurred. Without so much as a warning, he empties his stomach onto the luxurious carpet before collapsing into the mess.

For a brief moment, both Aloy and Kotallo absorb the sight of the man, who Aloy recognises as Avad, the second of the Carja Princes, struggling to rise from the slippery mess that had spilled from his stomach. The stench of vomit and sweet Carja wine nearly makes Aloy retch.

“It’s Avad. The Carja Prince. Our… mentor.” Aloy says, though she’s incredulous of just how much help the man before them will be when he chooses to inebriate himself in such a way.

She and Kotallo exchange a glance. Despite Avad's current state, Studious Vuadis had correct about one thing in all his rambling: once they enter the arena, Avad could become their only lifeline.

Without a word, she and Kotallo each lend him a supportive arm to help him stand.

"Had a stumble?" the man mumbles. "Smells awful." He wipes his hand across his nose, smudging his face with vomit.

"Let's get you cleaned up," Kotallo suggests. "Back to your room."

They half-carry, half-escort Avad to his quarters. Since they can't deposit him on the ornate bedspread, they guide him into the bathtub and turn on the faucet. He hardly seems to notice.

"It's alright," Kotallo reassures Aloy. "I'll take care of this."

She’s relieved; the last thing she wanted to do is undress a Carja Prince, scrub vomit from his chest hair, and tuck him into bed. Perhaps Kotallo hopes to curry favour with him before the events of the Sun-ring commence. Yet, given Avad's condition, he likely won't recall any of this tomorrow.

"Okay," I agree. "I can send someone to assist you. There are plenty of Carja here after all. Cooking, waiting, guarding—taking care of us is their job."

"No, I don't want them," Kotallo insists.

Following the decadent supper, Aloy retreats to her room, understanding Kotallo’s sentiment. She harbours no love for the Carja attendants either. Nonetheless, assigning them the task of dealing with their Prince might have served as a form of retribution.

As Aloy ponders Kotallo's motives, it strikes her suddenly: he's acting out of kindness, just as he once showed kindness to Rost.

The realisation gives her pause. A compassionate Kotallo poses a greater threat to her than an unkind one.

Kindness has a way of seeping into her, embedding itself. She can't allow Kotallo to do this, especially not where they're headed. So she resolves, from this moment forward, to keep her distance from the Sky Clan’s mighty son.

Returning to her room, she swiftly opens the small pouch she’d been permitted to carry from the Sacred Lands and takes the paint Arana had gifted her. She takes to painting the mark of the Nora Death Seeker upon her bare skin but looking at herself in the ornate mirror across from her feathered bed roll, Aloy is reminded of Rost and more so, of Kotallo and his painted flesh.

Frustrated with herself, she throws the pot of paint across the room. In it’s trajectory, it knocks over a vase, smashing it, the flowers once held within, spilling to the floor.

Aloy sighs and makes to crouch to collect the shards of the broken vase. She stops mid motion, her hand recoiling in shock as she recognises the flowers now lying on the floor, their stems limp, their petals furling at the sides.

Gingerly reaching out her hand, Aloy’s delicate fingers come to glance across the bouquet of blood crest blooms, her flesh staining a bright red. Taking one of the flowers in her hand, images flash before her mind’s eye momentarily—a reminder of another blood crest moon found preserved in a journal years ago...

She recalls fondly, a day where Rost had left in the early hours of the morning to go hunting for game to smoke and dry for the upcoming winter, leaving Aloy to wake to an empty cabin. Not an usual occurrence, but when he hadn’t returned by mid-morning, six year old Aloy had found herself bored and with little to do to pass the time as she awaited his return.

As children do, Aloy had a tendency to get into things not meant for prying eyes. Looking around the cabin for something to occupy her time, she found in the corner closest to Rost’s bedroll, tucked inconspicuously into the furthest corner of the cabin, an age-old leather travel pouch. Rifling through it in hopes of finding a secret stash of sweet berries or cured meats for her to munch on, Aloy instead found something much for precious.

Within the confines of the travel pouch, Aloy found a leather-bound journal, it’s pages thick and well loved. Unwinding the string close, the journal fell open in her lap to reveal a myriad of pages adorned with ink drawings of plants, flowers and animals the like that Aloy had never seen, a relic from Rost’s days at the potion shop. Amidst the medicinal entries, Rost had added listings of edible plants—dandelions, pokeweed, wild onions, and more. In the hours it took Rost to turn, Aloy had poured over those pages, discovering sustenance beyond her imagination.

Of the wonderous pages, one had struck her as particularly odd. Instead of a drawing of a flower, there lay within the journal’s pages, a dried flower, preserved behind a sheet of dried goat stomach lining, beneath it, foreign glyphs that Aloy would, many years later, come to recognise as ‘Blood Crest Bloom’. It was a most peculiar flower; eight, blood red petals fanned out from the centre of the flower, it’s stamen a bright yellow. It was unlike any flower Aloy had ever seen, that even in it’s preserved state, it’s colour was still vibrant enough to have stained the page of the journal.

The following day, when Rost had once again, gone out to hunt, Aloy had ventured alone into the Embrace, armed with her bow and arrows Rost had crafted. Though initially cautious, she gradually ventured deeper in the wilds, foraging and hunting for any sign of the bright red blood bloom, but to no avail. No matter how high or low she looked for the flower, she never set eyes on a single bloom.

Now, facing imminent death, Aloy laments not having asked the origins of the flower, but figures Rost must have collected it during his travels across the lands. Memories flood Aloy’s mind as she lies restlessly upon her bedroll, tomorrows travels undoubtedly carrying her towards an uncertain fate.

In the dim light of dawn, Studious Vuadis’s summons interrupt her thoughts. She dresses quickly, donning the shift yesterday. Her fingers trace the now peeling paint across her face, a reminder of the Nora and all she’s even known.

Entering the dining room, she joins a somewhat more sober Avad, Kotallo, and Studious Vuadis. Amidst the lavish spread, she observes Kotallo's efforts to connect with their affluent hosts, his actions belying a strategic plan.

Piling into another ornate carriage following the morning meal, it is only then that realisation dawns upon Aloy; Kotallo is not resigned to his fate, he's fighting to survive, even if it means outmanoeuvring her.

As the carriage approaches the Carja capital, she is struck by its opulence, a stark contrast to the Sacred Land’s austerity. The Carja residents' eager anticipation sickens her; they eagerly await their demise. Yet, Kotallo's optimism surprises her, his wave to the crowd a calculated move for potential supporters.

She’s underestimated him, she concedes. From his gestures of kindness to his strategic manoeuvres, Kotallo is not resigned to perish in the Sun-ring. He's determined to live—even if it means outplaying Aloy.