The jungle rose around Zaruko like a cathedral spun from vine and mist.
High above the forest floor, he walked across a bridge made not of rope or wood—but silk, pale and shimmering, strong enough to hold a dozen men. It swayed gently beneath his feet, suspended between massive trees whose trunks disappeared into the canopy. His guide, cloaked in web-threaded robes, moved without a word, feet silent, posture easy.
Above and below them, giant spiders moved through the trees—silent, watchful, deliberate. Some carried small baskets strapped to their abdomens. Others hung near suspended huts, repairing silk walls or tending to their offspring. None were chained. None were feared.
Zaruko saw children laugh and play near spiderlings, feeding them fruit, brushing their limbs, whispering to them like old friends.
This was not a place of domination. It was a place of partnership.
They reached a broad platform woven high between three trees. There stood the Silkmother, robed in layered gossamer, her hair streaked with silver, and beside her perched a spider nearly the size of a small horse, its black-and-amber legs curled around the platform's edge.
Zaruko bowed slightly.
The Silkmother smiled. "You walk gently for one who carries fire in his shadow."
"I was not brought to burn," Zaruko replied. "Only to listen."
She nodded, approving. Then she gestured for him to sit.
The people of the Webwood, as they called themselves, had long lived in balance with their god: Silk'mara, the Weaver of Fates. Her children—intelligent, near-immortal spiderkin—coexisted with the humans not as beasts or deities, but as equals.
At birth, each child of the tribe was brought before the nursery silk. There, newborn spiderlings stirred. Some scurried away. Some moved forward. And when a child and spiderkin chose one another, a life-bond was formed—a sacred contract of care, loyalty, and purpose.
The humans gained protection and silk that no warrior could cut through. The spiderkin gained nurturing, exploration, and a name.
"They do not serve us," said the Silkmother. "And we do not worship them. We live together. One thread cannot hold a world. But a weave… now that can hold anything."
Zaruko spent the day walking among their homes, watching men and women work side by side with their spiderkin. Looms spun web into armor and blankets. Clay kilns baked fermented silk to strengthen its weave. Steam chambers preserved food for trade.
He watched a spider gently lift a child across a ravine with one leg, then disappear into the canopy. Another used its silk to mend a torn roof. The people moved in harmony.
At night, a ceremony was held.
A newborn had accepted a spiderling's bond, and the two were gently placed together in a woven cradle. As the tribe watched, the tiny spider placed one leg on the baby's chest—and the baby cooed in response.
The threads shimmered around them.
"And so," the Silkmother whispered, "the web gains a new knot."
Later, in the lodge provided to him, Zaruko lay on a silk mat, his eyes half-closed.
He heard nothing. No crickets. No birds. Only the breath of the forest.
Then — a soft click above him.
A spider, larger than a panther, crawled silently along the roof's beams, watching him with eight golden eyes.
It didn't move.
Neither did he.
Zaruko slowly bowed his head.
"I am not yours," he whispered, "but I understand."
The spider lingered a moment longer—then vanished into the dark.
Final Line:
In this place, gods did not demand prayers.
They offered threads — and trusted mortals not to pull too hard.
The next morning, Zaruko awoke to the gentle hum of the canopy—a living web vibrating softly with the breath of hundreds of spiderkin.
He stepped outside his woven lodge, the sky filtered through a thick lattice of leaves and silk strands. Around him, the tribe moved with fluid grace, their lives inseparable from their spider partners.
As he walked toward the central platform, a group of weavers approached him, their robes shimmering like spun glass. Their eyes held curiosity — and something deeper: a quiet challenge.
One, a woman whose hair was braided with silver thread, spoke first.
"Stranger, you carry the mark of fire. Yet you walk among us like a shadow. Why?"
Zaruko met her gaze steadily.
"I carry Ogou's flame, yes. But fire can build as well as burn. I seek balance — not destruction."
She nodded slowly, then turned.
"Tomorrow, the Weaving Trial will decide if you are truly welcome here. It is not a fight of steel, but of spirit and trust. Fail, and the web will unravel around you."
Before he could respond, the murmurs of the spiderkin grew louder. The giant spider from last night descended beside the woman, lowering its head in silent greeting.
Zaruko placed a hand on the creature's carapace, feeling its calm strength.
The trial awaited.
Zaruko's hand lingered on the massive spider's carapace, feeling the subtle pulse of life beneath its chitinous shell. The creature's many eyes reflected a calm intelligence, and in that moment, Zaruko sensed a bond—not of ownership or dominance, but of mutual respect. The silence between them spoke volumes, bridging worlds that rarely touched.
Around them, the tribe's weavers circled, their gazes sharp and expectant. The silver-threaded woman stepped forward once more, her voice carrying the weight of tradition.
"You carry the flame of Ogou, a force that could unweave our very lives. The Weaving Trial is our way to know if your presence will strengthen our web or tear it apart."
Zaruko nodded solemnly, understanding that this trial would not be fought with sword or strength, but with patience, wisdom, and trust.
The sun dipped low, casting elongated shadows across the silk bridges and platforms. Preparations began in quiet harmony, the tribe moving with practiced grace to ready the space for the coming trial.
As night settled, Zaruko found himself alone for a moment, gazing upward through the canopy at the stars just visible beyond the dense weave of leaves and silk.
The giant spider reappeared silently beside him, its many eyes gleaming in the moonlight. It lowered its head as if offering silent support, a reminder that in this place, the threads of fate were delicate, and every movement mattered.
Zaruko inhaled deeply, steadying his resolve.
Tomorrow, he would enter the web — not just of silk, but of trust and ancient covenant.