Snow still clung to the shadowed edges of the jungle. Though the worst of winter had passed, the air remained sharp, biting at skin and spirit alike. From the high ridges to the low trails, the land was quiet — a tense silence between seasons.
But it did not stay quiet for long.
At dawn, they came.
Dozens of men, women, and children — gaunt, wrapped in furs and vines, some barefoot, others limping. They bore handmade banners: strips of bark stained red, etched with symbols of flame. One banner carried a carved depiction of a hammer above a burning tree. They moved with reverence, stopping at the border of Kan Ogou's domain. None dared cross the boundary without permission.
They had heard of the god who walked with mortals. Of the war-forged tribe rising from the ashes of winter. Of Ogou.
Zaruko stood at the outer edge of the village, arms crossed, eyes narrow. Maela was beside him, spear at the ready, though not raised.
"They're half-dead," she whispered.
"Half-dead people can still bring death," he replied. "But they came bearing flame, not blades."
Behind him, the villagers gathered, murmuring. Some feared disease. Others muttered of spies. A few recognized faces — kin separated seasons ago.
Zaruko raised one hand and signaled the guards to lower their spears. He stepped forward.
"Why have you come?"
The eldest among the strangers, a gray-haired woman with only one eye, bowed low. "We heard the fire here still burns. We wish to kneel before it — and earn our place by it."
Zaruko said nothing for a long moment. Then nodded. "You'll stand before the council. No promises, but you'll be heard."
The council chamber, a ring of stone benches around the central hearth, filled quickly. Arguments flared before the fire even sparked.
"We don't have enough to feed them."
"They'll weaken us if war comes again."
"They should earn their place, not beg for it!"
Zaruko remained quiet as the voices clashed. Then he stood and took a single smooth stone from the fire, held it in both hands.
, "there was once a method — a way to survive disaster."
He laid the stone down and began drawing lines in the ash — a supply rotation system, assigning groups to rotating duties: food gathering, shelter repair, defense patrol. Simple, effective. Efficient. Taught to him by commanders long dead.
Some elders nodded. Others looked uncertain, but none could deny the logic.
"We'll build a structure — civic and martial," Zaruko continued. "Everyone will have a role. And if these refugees want the fire, they must add to it."
That night, Ogou came.
Not with thunder or fury, but barefoot, hammer over his shoulder, sweat glistening on his dark skin from the forge's eternal heat. He leaned lazily against Zaruko's chair, nodding to Maela as he passed.
"When a forge takes in broken blades," Ogou said, his voice like cracking iron, "it can make them sharp again. Or it can melt into slag. The difference is the hand holding the hammer."
Zaruko tilted his head. "You approve?"
"I didn't say that." Ogou grinned. "But I'm curious. Let them prove themselves. Each must offer something real. No one kneels without reason."
The Rite of Endurance began the next morning.
Each refugee was given a burden — tools, food, stones — and instructed to march the full perimeter of Kan Ogou's land, barefoot, in silence. Only those who endured the trial and reached the forge would be permitted to enter.
Some fell and did not rise. A few turned back. But many, driven by desperation and hope, endured. When they finally knelt before the forge, sweat-soaked and trembling, a faint warmth touched their chests. Not a sigil — but a flicker. Ogou was watching.
That evening, Zaruko sat beside the forge, eating roasted tubers Maela had quietly placed beside him.
"I didn't ask for this," he said after a long silence.
"But you accepted it," Maela replied.
He glanced at her. "I carry a name not born here. I lead people with expectations I never agreed to. Sometimes I wonder if I'm doing it for them… or to honor ghosts I never met."
Maela took his hand gently.
"You don't need to carry it alone."
He looked down at their joined hands.
"Then stand beside me. Not behind."
They said nothing more. But the space between them pulsed — not just with affection, but with something deeper. A shared truth neither could name.
Later that night, Yarenna stood at the edge of the cemetery as the wind turned warm. She looked up at the sky, the stars dimmed by drifting smoke.
In the far distance, a northern scout stumbled into the village, breathless and pale.
"The cliffs," he gasped. "They collapsed. Something… something woke beneath."
He dropped to his knees, clutching a black shard of obsidian bone that hummed faintly in the cold air.
Zaruko felt the tremor before the sound reached him.
Ogou, standing by the forge, stared into the fire.
"It wakes," the god said, too quietly for anyone but the flames to hear.
Ogou, standing by the forge, stared into the fire.
"It wakes," the god said, too quietly for anyone but the flames to hear.
The heat in the forge flared—just once—before steadying, like a breath caught in the throat.
Zaruko stood before him moments later, having felt the tremor not in his feet, but in the marrow of his bones.
"What wakes?"
Ogou didn't answer immediately. He tapped the hammer against the floor of the forge, once, twice—metal ringing against stone.
"Not everything that slumbers dreams in peace," he finally said. "This land remembers things older than gods. And the cliffs… they held more than rock."
Zaruko clenched his jaw. "Is it a god?"
"No," Ogou muttered. "But it once fed on them."
Back in the village, the scout—eyes still wide from terror—was brought to rest in Maela's longhouse. He could barely drink water, but the obsidian shard he carried pulsed faintly. Yarenna approached him with quiet reverence, placing a cooling balm on his hands and chest.
When the shard came near her, it hissed. Not in fear… but in recognition.
"I've felt this in the earth before," she whispered to Zaruko later that night. "When we buried the warriors beneath the first frost. The stone… it watched us."
Zaruko felt a cold wind cut across his shoulders, though the forge burned steadily not far off.
The next morning, Ogou gathered the village—not with thunder or command, but by stepping out of the forge and simply waiting. The people came, even the children, sensing the weight of something shifting beneath their lives.
When all had assembled, Ogou turned his gaze across the gathered faces.
"You've built much. Fought for each other. Bled and burned and grown stronger." He paused. "But strength attracts hunger."
He held up a molten sliver of iron and dropped it onto the stone floor. It hissed, spat sparks, and cracked in half.
"Beneath this land sleeps something that devours power. And now it smells yours."
Murmurs turned into whispers. Some looked to Zaruko. Others to the mountains in the north.
"Do we fight it?" someone called out.
Ogou shook his head. "You don't fight storms. You prepare. You endure. You find what it wants… and ensure it never gets it."
Then his eyes turned to Zaruko.
"You brought the fire here, boy. What you do next decides whether it burns brighter—or gets swallowed in the dark."
That night, Zaruko stood on the high ridge with Maela, watching the distant cliffs. In the dim twilight, they saw it: a thin crack in the mountain range, glowing red from within. Like a wound that refused to close.
"I have to go," Zaruko said quietly. "I need to see what's coming."
Maela touched his arm. "You won't go alone."
He looked at her. "Not as my second."
She smiled. "No. As your equal."
Below them, the forge burned. Behind them, the village breathed as one. And beyond the mountains, something old… began to stir.