The stone gate loomed behind him, its jagged peaks reaching into the gray sky like the ribs of an ancient beast. Zaruko stood at its threshold, the wind tugging gently at his cloak, the cloth in his hand folded with care — a vévé, drawn in charcoal and ash, marked with invitation and protection.
Across from him stood Iska, leader of the Stone-Faced Tribe. Her arms were crossed, her expression carved from the same rock that surrounded her village. Warriors flanked her, silent and still, watching.
Zaruko spoke with calm certainty.
"This is not a command. Not a chain. Only a path. One you may walk when ready."
He offered the vévé forward — open palm, slow breath.
Iska's eyes moved, not to the cloth, but to his face. Her voice was flat but firm.
"We've survived centuries by saying no. No to strangers. No to gods. No to the hands that offer before they ask."
She stepped back once, deliberate.
"We do not walk paths we did not cut ourselves."
Zaruko did not flinch. He gave a slow, respectful nod.
"Then cut your stone."
He bent and placed the vévé on a smooth slab of slate between them.
"But if the day comes when that stone cracks and you have no one to stand with, Kan Ogou will answer. No debt. No shame. Just fire, ready to meet fire."
He turned without another word.
And the gates of the Stone-Faced Tribe closed behind him.
Three days passed in silence.
The mountains gave way to jagged hills and dense, dark pines. Zaruko traveled alone, moving like a shadow through the wild, living on dried roots, bitter berries, and wild game. His boots were worn. His cloak soaked. But his spirit remained still — like an ember that had long forgotten how to die out.
By the fifth night, the fog was so thick he could barely see his hand in front of him.
That was when he heard it — a sharp yelp, followed by a guttural snarl. Something large. Something desperate.
Zaruko moved quickly, heart steady. He slipped through the brush, low and silent, until the trees parted into a clearing of stone and moss.
Two beasts clashed before him.
One, massive and sleek, covered in dark-scaled armor, bore tusks that curved like blackened swords. It prowled forward with eyes that burned like coal.
The other — larger, though wounded — was furred in storm-gray, its side slashed open, blood seeping into the earth. Behind it, three small cubs huddled together, trembling.
The predator circled, drool and fury dripping from its jaws.
Zaruko stepped forward. Calm. Barehanded.
He drew his sword — not to strike, but to plant. With a sudden, resonant crack, he drove the blade into the ground between them.
The clang echoed like thunder. The predator froze.
Zaruko didn't yell. He didn't threaten. He stood, eyes unwavering, presence vast — not just man, but memory. The air around him rippled with something unseen.
The predator took one look… and fled into the dark.
The clearing fell still.
Zaruko knelt beside the mother-beast, careful, slow. He offered water from his flask. The creature did not growl. It only breathed hard, shuddering.
Then — it rose.
Blood still flowed, but it stood strong enough to protect. It sniffed its cubs, then turned toward him.
It stepped closer — massive, silent.
Then, without warning, it pressed its nose to his chest and inhaled deeply.
Zaruko didn't move.
The beast froze there, as if reading something that could not be spoken — something etched not on his body, but in the spaces between his bones. A fire not seen, but felt.
It exhaled. A low, rumbling breath.
Then, from beneath its fur, wings unfurled — broad and veined with silver streaks. One by one, the cubs followed. The beast leapt into the sky and vanished beyond the trees, a streak of grace in the mist.
Zaruko watched them go, the wind now warm where it had been cold.
He placed one hand on the hilt of his sword and breathed.
Not every alliance came with words.
Not every loyalty was born in villages.
Some came from silence — shared between beasts who understood the burden of protection.
He turned toward the rising sun, and walked on.
The forest thinned as Zaruko climbed, each step bringing him higher into the mountains, where the wind cut sharper and the trees grew twisted and sparse.
He had not spoken in days.
There was no one to speak to, and nothing to explain.
The encounter with the beast still echoed in him — not the fight, but the moment after. That breath. That recognition.
What had it seen?
What had it smelled in him?
The fire of Ogou?
The scent of something even older?
He didn't know.
But since then, the world felt… different. Not louder, not dangerous — simply more aware. As if the land itself had begun to watch him back.
By the seventh day, Zaruko reached a stony ridge overlooking a wide, broken valley. Far below, a crumbling ruin lay half-swallowed by vines and ash, like the skeleton of a forgotten god.
He camped there.
He ate little. He drank from mountain runoff. And when night came, he didn't sleep.
The stars above blinked slowly, veiled in mist.
Then — a sound.
Not near. Not dangerous. But deliberate.
Somewhere in the valley below, something knocked. Once. Then again. Like stone on stone.
Zaruko didn't move. Didn't reach for his blade. He simply listened.
The knocking stopped.
But in his chest, something stirred.
A direction. A pull. Not like a map or a command — more like gravity. A sense that his next step wasn't just toward land or people, but meaning.
He would follow it.
Not because he had to — but because the road itself had begun to reveal whispers, and he had never feared walking into them.
He stood, adjusted the strap across his shoulder, and began descending into the valley.
They came at dusk, silent as smoke between the trees.
Zaruko had been walking the ridge alone when the scent of ash and blood crept into the wind. Before his hand could reach the hilt of his blade, they were on him—half-naked, painted in ochre and bone, their eyes wild with devotion and hunger.
He fought. Not to escape, but to measure them.
They were strong. Desperate. Fanatical.
By nightfall, he was bound in thick ropes soaked in animal fat, dragged across thorns and stones to a village of sharpened stakes and blackened fires. The people did not cheer. They chanted, low and guttural, calling to something ancient that hung in the dark beyond their torchlight.
Zaruko was tied to a post carved with teeth and claw marks. Blood from old sacrifices still stained the roots beneath him.
An elder approached, cloaked in human hides, whispering to their god in a forgotten tongue.
"Your spirit will feed the god. Your flesh will strengthen the people."
Zaruko looked up at the stars.
And far above the smoke, where only silence should dwell—thunder rumbled.