The morning sun rose slowly over Kan Ogou, casting golden light on the Council Circle. The carved posts, each bearing the sigil of a founding family, stood solemn and proud. But the faces gathered around them were tense, their voices edged with unease.
Zaruko sat at the head of the circle, his expression calm but alert. Beside him were Maela, Toma, Bakari, Senja, Niazo, and several elders. The scout, dust still clinging to his boots, stood in the center with bowed head.
"They are many," the scout reported. "Camped near the Forked River, days east. They wear no colors we recognize, but they march in formation—lines, ranks, discipline. No livestock. All warriors, I think."
A quiet passed through the council.
Maela was the first to speak. "Growth draws eyes, some friendly, some not. We've built something here. Others may see it as something to claim… or burn."
Toma folded his arms. "Then we speak first. I propose we send an envoy to their camp—show them we are a people, not prey."
Bakari's jaw tightened. "You assume they want to talk. I say we double the wall guard and bring the outer ring warriors into daily rotation."
Zaruko remained silent, listening. Weighing.
It was Niazo who finally asked, "Will we greet this tribe with an open hand or a raised spear?"
Zaruko rose. "Both."
Beyond the village, in the shadowed grove where the first stones of Kan Ogou had been blessed, the Seeress stood barefoot in the dew-soaked grass. Her long braids were crowned with feathers and bones, and her body was painted with red ochre and ash.
She knelt beside the sacred basin, filled with water from the River of Beginnings. As the wind stirred around her, she whispered the names of the ancestors. Her fingers touched the surface, and it rippled—not from her touch, but from something deeper.
Visions surged: ash falling like snow, wolves wearing human skin, and a great black bird circling above a burning plain. She felt it—not just war, but corruption, something ancient and patient.
When she opened her eyes, the wind had died. The leaves stilled.
That evening, a runner arrived at the Council Circle with her words carved into bark:
"Beware the tribe with no songs. They march not for land, but for silence.
The balance is shifting. Guard not just your walls, but your hearts."
Under the baobab tree, Maela sat cross-legged on a woven mat, mending a tunic torn during the day's work. Zaruko approached quietly and knelt beside her.
She didn't look up. "So. An envoy and a war party. Always two fires burning."
Zaruko smiled faintly. "You've always seen clearer than I do."
She set the tunic down. "I fear I'm becoming part of the walls—necessary but invisible. You're building something powerful, and I don't know where I stand in it anymore."
Zaruko reached out, taking her hand. "You stand with me. Not behind. Not beneath. With."
Her gaze met his, and the air between them softened.
"When the time comes," she said, "promise me you'll protect this—not just the tribe, but us."
"I promise."
At the training grounds, Bakari's voice rang out like steel. "Again!" Warriors sprinted, turned, dropped into defensive stances. Sweat rolled, muscles burned, minds sharpened.
Senja stood with arms crossed, studying every motion. "Good," she said to Bakari. "But not enough. We need night drills. Surprise attacks. Simulations."
Bakari grinned. "Finally talking like me."
As twilight fell, scouts returned bearing rough sketches and charcoal markings of the eastern tribe. They wore jagged insignias—sharp-angled, foreign. Their encampments were tidy, uniform. Fires burned low. Their leaders, the scouts said, bore no names—only ranks.
Toma stepped forward, preparing to leave with the envoy group by sunrise. "Let's hope they value words," he said, strapping his sword to his back.
"And if they don't?" Senja asked.
Toma shrugged. "Then we speak the old language."
Night settled over Kan Ogou, the village aglow with quiet firelight and the distant sounds of children laughing, traders closing their stalls, and warriors ending their drills. But Zaruko stood atop the northern wall, eyes fixed on the darkness beyond.
The wind shifted. It carried no scent of smoke, no cry of beasts. Just silence—and something beneath it.
In the far distance, beyond the hills, a faint orange glow blinked and vanished.
The horizon was no longer a promise.
It was a warning.
The sacred grove lay hushed as the Seeress placed obsidian stones in a circle around the basin. Her voice shifted into a tongue older than the tribe itself, barely remembered even in the elders' stories.
The wind circled her—then dropped dead.
The water darkened. No reflection.
Then: flame. Screaming winds. A tree split in two by a single scream. A warrior with hollow eyes. A drum beaten not by hands, but by thunder.
Then a face—shrouded in red cloth, marked by soot. Watching.
Her body trembled.
From the edge of her vision came words not from the ancestors, but something else.
"He does not come to conquer.
He comes to consume."
The vision tore from her, leaving her gasping in the grass, blood trickling from her nose.
She sent two messages this time.
One was carved into bark and sent to Zaruko.
The other, burned into hide, was buried beneath a sacred tree, hidden from all but those the spirits would call.
✦ Between Lovers and Leaders
Night had deepened, but Maela couldn't sleep. She sat wrapped in a fur cloak, tending a small fire outside their tent. When Zaruko returned from his vigil, he sat beside her without a word.
The silence between them was familiar, but not always comforting.
"You speak to them like a chieftain," she said finally, "but to me like a man too tired to feel."
Zaruko blinked. "Is that what you want? My feelings?"
"I want your truth," she said, turning to him. "Not the part you give them. Not the strong face. The real one. The afraid one. The one that worries at night when no one sees."
He stared into the flames for a long time.
"I'm afraid I'll fail them," he said at last. "I'm afraid that no matter what I build, it'll be torn down the moment I turn my back."
"And me?" she asked quietly.
His answer came slower. "I'm afraid I'll lose you—piece by piece, to duty, to time, to the person I might become if I stop remembering who I was."
She leaned into him, resting her head on his shoulder.
"Then don't forget. Let me remind you."
✦ East of the Forked River
In a narrow clearing surrounded by torchlight, the eastern tribe made camp. Their warriors knelt in rows, faces hidden behind bone-painted masks. No children. No fires save the ceremonial ones.
A tall figure stepped from a blackened tent. His robe was stitched with teeth, his face hidden behind a veil of red silk.
"The watchers report movement," said one masked scout.
The veiled man spoke without turning. "Let them come. Let them beg."
Another stepped beside him, wearing a crown of coals burned into the skin of his scalp.
"They are building," he said. "Dreaming. Planning for peace."
The veiled one's voice tightened like a rope. "Then we will teach them what silence dreams of."
He raised one hand.
The torches blew out.