The village of Kan Ogou stirred awake beneath a sky still heavy with the weight of the night's silence. The first hints of dawn cast a muted glow over thatched roofs and sprawling fires where embers cracked softly. Birds began their cautious songs, and the murmurs of waking villagers blended with the rustling of leaves stirred by the gentle morning breeze. This was the calm before the storm, though no one yet knew what storm would come.
The children were already stirring in the open clearing near the forge. Tiny hands gripped smooth wooden spears carved from young saplings, and laughter rang out as mock battles broke between groups of eager young warriors. Their movements were rough, uneven, but filled with raw energy and the joy of play. Among them, little Jalu, a quick-footed boy with dark eyes bright as stars, stumbled and fell, only to erupt in giggles as his friends teased him good-naturedly.
Nearby, Maela gathered a small group of girls, teaching them the names and uses of herbs that grew wild around the village's edge. Her voice was calm and steady as she spoke of healing leaves and soothing roots, her hands weaving gentle motions as if casting an unseen spell. The girls listened, eyes wide with wonder, clutching woven baskets waiting to be filled with nature's gifts. This ritual was a quiet resistance against the harshness of the world, a way to hold life and hope tightly.
Not far from the forge, two villagers—Kano and Sela—stood beneath the framework of a new roof, their voices rising in a mixture of argument and laughter. Kano insisted the beams should be angled to better catch the rain, while Sela countered with tales of how her mother's family had built homes to keep out the wind. Their banter was familiar, a sign of growing bonds, even as their hands worked the wood with a shared determination.
In the circle of elders around the fire, Jinba, the oldest warrior, began reciting an old tale. His voice, gravelly but rich, wove through the air: "There was once a man who wrestled fire itself, who dared to tame the heat that devours. His spirit became flame, and from that flame, we were born." The story was as much a lesson as a legend, a thread connecting the people to a past they were still forging.
But beneath this warmth, a quiet unease settled in the air, almost imperceptible. The leaves stilled. The usual morning chorus faltered. And then, a fine ash began to drift down from the sky like pale snow, coating roofs and shoulders with a ghostly dust.
Zaruko paused in his walk back from the forge. He shielded his eyes against the drifting ash, watching it catch the faint morning light as it twirled lazily to the ground. The air smelled faintly of smoke, not from their own fires but something deeper, more ancient.
Ahead, he saw Maela tending to a young girl coughing softly, her face pale. Others gathered in small clusters, whispering nervously about the strange signs. A goat had been found dead near the riverbank — no wounds, no marks, only a blackened skull and cold eyes staring blankly at the sky.
Two children played at the edge of the village, but their words were not their own. Their voices echoed riddles, half-forgotten phrases in a language not spoken here. It was as though the jungle itself whispered secrets to them, secrets meant to unsettle.
Zaruko's gaze shifted to the forge, where a faint humming had begun to rise — a sound without flame, like a heartbeat in the earth's core. He knew this was no ordinary day.
Inside the forge, the heat was a dull pulse beneath the surface. Zaruko approached Ogou's statue, the massive iron form etched with swirling patterns of flame and hammer marks. The air around it shimmered faintly, as if the god's presence pressed just beyond the veil of reality.
"Ogou," Zaruko called quietly, his voice steady despite the turmoil inside him.
The god's eyes, dull and lifeless before, suddenly flickered with molten light.
"You were right to fear peace," Ogou's voice rumbled like distant thunder. "It never lasts where gods compete."
Zaruko bowed his head. "What is coming?"
Ogou's hand rose, and the forge's air rippled with heat.
"Fumuza has waited longer than most. His breath is smoke, his touch deceit. He is not a god of war. He is a god of decay."
Zaruko's mind raced. The name meant nothing to most, but the feeling behind it chilled his bones.
Outside, a scout stumbled into the village, eyes wide with terror. His face was burned, his clothes torn and smeared with ash and grime, but he lived.
"I saw him," the scout gasped, clutching Zaruko's arm. "A god. Ten faces. Sitting on a throne made of bones. He carries smoke in his breath, and with him, death follows."
Whispers spread like wildfire. The threat was no longer distant. It was close. And it came with riddles and shadows.
Zaruko stood tall, eyes burning with determination.
"We will meet this challenge," he declared. "Not as scared villagers, but as the children of fire."
Over the following days, the village transformed. The air was thick with purpose and tension. The elders carved protective patterns into shields and weapons — some inspired by memories brought by Dambala's silver scales, others born from the earth itself.
Maela worked tirelessly with the healers, preparing for wounds no herb alone could heal.
Zaruko trained with the warriors, teaching tactics and formations honed by a lifetime in battle. The children watched, wide-eyed, learning not just to fight but to understand the weight of their ancestors' legacy.
Even the forge itself seemed alive, breathing once more with the pulse of the earth. One night, without warning, a blade formed in the heart of the fire — black as obsidian, with veins of glowing copper that shimmered like molten metal. The air around it was thick with power, and the blade hummed with a voice that only Zaruko could hear.
Ogou's words echoed in his mind:
"You will carry this to the border. Place it in the earth. It is a message. A warning. A challenge."
At dawn, Zaruko knelt beneath the rising sun, the smoking blade gripped firmly in his hands. Behind him, his people prepared, faces set with determination but tinged with fear. Ahead, the jungle lay thick and dark, the air heavy with secrets.
In the distance, a column of gray smoke rose, unnatural and ominous.
The fire had made them strong.
Now, the smoke had come to test what remained.