The sun hung low over Kan Ogou, casting long shadows across the stone and timber of the village. The sharp clang of hammer on anvil echoed faintly from the forge, mingling with the soft rustle of silk threads drifting on the afternoon breeze.
Near the outer walls, Maela crouched beside a cluster of enormous webs shimmering between the blackened wood beams. Five young spiderlings — their glossy legs twitching — crawled and spun around her hands as she moved gently, tending their delicate limbs and brushing stray bits of dust from their bodies.
Nala sat proudly nearby, her great form a quiet guardian. She watched Maela with attentive eyes, occasionally dipping a leg to weave a protective thread along the edges of the enclosure.
Maela's voice was low, steady.
"Steady now, Luma. Don't rush the silk too fast, or it'll break."
Luma — the most curious of the younglings — paused, legs trembling slightly as she focused on the pattern Maela demonstrated.
"Good," Maela said with a soft smile. "Each web is a promise. A balance. We keep the tribe alive, and they keep us safe."
The five spiderlings were not just creatures of myth or fear — they were vital, sacred partners.
From the distance came the steady beat of marching feet and clanking armor. The four armies had returned from their seasonal hunts, laden with game, roots, and baskets brimming with fresh water and wild herbs. They had fulfilled their promise: to provide for the spiders and the forge, ensuring the sacred webs could grow strong through winter.
Senja's squad passed by with wild boar carcasses, Toma's men carried bundles of dried venison, Bakari's warriors bore woven sacks of nuts and grains, and Niazo's scouts brought fresh herbs and bark.
Maela rose to greet them, hands raised in thanks. Her eyes gleamed with fierce pride.
"You feed the flame," she said. "And with it, the future of Kan Ogou."
Nala lifted her head and emitted a low, humming vibration — a sound no human could understand, but one that made even the warriors pause and look up in reverence.
In this quiet harmony of blade, silk, and blood, the tribe's fate was woven tighter than ever.
As night fell, the forge fire burned bright, reflecting in Maela's determined eyes. The spiders stirred in their webs, and somewhere beyond, Ogou's eternal flame awaited the offerings yet to come.
The snow came slow and steady across the lands of Kan Ogou, veiling the earth in white silence. It was the season of sacrifice — not a time of mourning, but of fire, blood, and sacred promise.
The four armies, spread across the cardinal directions, answered the call with steel and instinct. Each commander had chosen a different direction, unleashing their warriors to scour the wilds.
Their task: to hunt the most vicious, most defiant beasts that roamed within a hundred miles of Kan Ogou — not for sport, but as sacrificial offerings to Ogou.
Camp East — Under Senja's Command
Senja's warriors hunted deep in the jagged gorgelands where rockbacks, armored beasts with eyes like molten amber, burrowed and charged like living battering rams. It took three days, ten spears, and a rope trap laced with spider silk to bring one down. Bloodied and bruised, they returned as snow began to fall, dragging the beast's broken body behind them.
It was burned beneath the eastern altar as warriors stood bare-chested in the snow, chanting Ogou's name with fists against their hearts.
Camp West — Under Toma
Toma's scouts ventured into the highwoods where mist-fanged stalkers hunted silently in packs. They set flame-traps, baited them with false movement, and faced them under torchlight and storm. The final stalker—larger than a bullhorned drake—was carried back and offered whole, its claws bound in sacred red cord.
Their fire burned high, and the warriors knelt around it, offering their blades to the heat in quiet unity.
Camp North — Under Bakari
Bakari led his warriors to the edge of the glacier hills, tracking the dreaded white dreadboar, a creature whose tusks had gutted entire warbands. It was Bakari himself who felled the beast with a double-spear throw as it charged through a frozen pass.
They dragged its corpse across the ice and offered it to Ogou without ceremony. The beast's blood steamed on the altar stone, and the northern fire turned blue for just a moment — the god's silent approval.
Camp South — Under Niazo
In the marshlands, Niazo's command hunted the venomous razor tail serpents that lurked in the roots and waters. Fast, armored, and endlessly elusive, it took precise teamwork to corner one without being torn apart.
When they returned, the tribe saw a serpent the size of a wagon, body slashed with dozens of spear wounds. As it burned at the southern altar, the flames hissed and coiled — fire dancing like a serpent itself.
Meanwhile, in Kan Ogou
Those who could not hunt made arrangements of their own. Merchants, weavers, elders — all who were unable to take to the wilds offered their coin or trade to hire hunters. These men and women roamed far into the badlands, slaying vicious beasts on behalf of those too old, too young, or too vital to risk.
Their prizes were brought back in silence and laid before the forge. No man or woman pretended the offering was theirs alone. This was a shared act of faith — proof that survival was earned together.
The Man and the Ballon Beast
At dusk, just as the sun began to vanish beyond the westward peaks, a man approached the Forge Temple with his family behind him. He was gaunt, dressed in travel-worn furs, but his eyes were proud. Behind him, dragged by rope and stripped of armor, lay the carcass of a Ballon Beast — a horned terror known in whispers and nightmare, a monster said to have killed thousands.
Even the guards were stunned.
Zaruko stepped forward himself.
The man knelt.
"I am not from Kan Ogou by blood," he said. "But I submit in spirit. I brought down this beast for my family and for Ogou. I ask only this: let me bear the sigil. Let me serve in the army. Let me provide, not beg."
There was silence.
The forge flame surged—just once, then stilled.
Zaruko looked down, then raised his hand.
For a long moment, there was silence. The forge fire snapped, then stilled. The wind ceased.
Then it happened.
Before anyone could speak, the man's back arched as though struck by a breath of thunder. His skin shimmered — and then burned with invisible light. Lines etched themselves across his shoulder blades, black and smoking as if tattooed by an unseen hand.
The sigil of Ogou — curved like a flame, marked by a forge-hammer, crowned by a sword's point — burned itself into being.
Gasps rose from the crowd, but no one dared speak.
The man breathed hard, then bowed low.
Zaruko nodded once.
"You asked for the right to serve. Ogou answered."
The man rose, not as a guest — but as a warrior of Kan Ogou. He turned to his family, who wept silently, and then looked to the camps beyond the forge.
"Send him south," Zaruko said. "Niazo's ranks are thinning, and they could use the fire this one carries."
As the man was led away, the forge flames leapt once more — not with destruction, but recognition.
Final Lines
Smoke curled from all five sacred fires — east, west, north, south, and the heart at the forge. The winds carried the scent of power. Of offerings accepted. Of gods watching.
And deep in the soul of Kan Ogou, the people stood taller, reminded of a truth older than any stone:
Ogou does not care where you are born.
Only what you are willing to burn to stand.