The western wind had changed.
For days, the jungle edge had felt unnatural—too dry, too quiet. No birds, no insects. Just heat, thick and heavy, as if the land itself were holding its breath.
Zaruko stood at the boundary, overlooking cracked mud where there should have been tangled vines and murky water. Behind him, scouts knelt beside a strange object: a black glass spire rising from the earth like a dagger stabbed by a god.
"It wasn't here yesterday," one scout whispered.
"No," Zaruko replied. "It wasn't."
A Wind That Should Not Be
The western horizon was sick.
What had once been swamp had dried into dust. Cracks ran through the soil like veins drained of blood. The trees nearest the cliffs bent away from the direction of the wind—as if something larger than air moved toward them.
Zaruko stood in silence, hand resting on the pommel of his blade. Behind him, a dozen scouts watched him, unsure whether to speak.
"It feels wrong," said Jinba, the elder hunter.
"No scent," muttered another. "No rot, no damp… just heat."
A strange object jutted from the ground nearby — a shard of obsidian as tall as a man, smooth and humming like a horn just before it's blown. In its reflection, Zaruko saw something: not himself, but a flicker of flame that didn't belong to the forge.
The sigil on his chest throbbed faintly.
He stepped back.
"Take it," Zaruko commanded. "Bring it to the forge. I want its shadow watched."
The Emissary Comes
That night, the air split.
No warning. No howl. Just heat.
A figure stepped into Kan Ogou's outer clearing—barefoot, clothed in rags that shimmered like glass dust, skin bronzed and cracked as sunbaked rock. His eyes glowed a sick, luminous amber.
He bore no weapon. But the jungle recoiled from his presence.
The guards at the perimeter faltered.
Zaruko emerged from the forge, flanked by Kael and Ayomi, who carried no weapons but the weight of their silence.
The stranger spoke.
"I am Elaru, voice of M'Batha—the Lord of Dunes, Fire, and Hunger. I come with sand in my mouth and a warning in my breath."
He walked forward. No fear. No hesitation.
Zaruko met him halfway.
"You've crossed sacred earth," he said flatly.
Elaru smiled. "It was not sacred until you named it so. And naming a flame does not mean it will burn."
The villagers gathered slowly. Children peered from behind trees. Some held hands, others gripped tools like weapons.
"You have disturbed the balance," Elaru continued. "A forge that breathes without a smith. A mark not of this world. A war god who does not yet stand."
He narrowed his eyes at Zaruko.
"M'Batha sees. And he hungers."
Zaruko didn't flinch. "Then let him starve."
Sparks Without Fire
Zaruko led Elaru to the forge. The emissary touched nothing, yet everything near him seemed to dry and dull.
The fire within the forge burned low tonight. No whispers. No breath. Just embers.
Zaruko stood beside it, the sigil on his chest faintly glowing through the threads of his cloak.
"You see," Elaru said, almost gently. "He does not answer."
Zaruko turned. "He does not beg. He waits."
A silence passed between them—one not empty, but coiled tight.
Then Elaru gestured toward the obsidian shard, now resting at the base of the forge.
"This is not a gift. It is a mark. A crack in your boundary. M'Batha has sent it so the land remembers who first drank its fire."
He leaned in closer.
"When next I return, it will not be alone."
Zaruko's hand rested near the hilt of his blade.
Elaru did not flinch.
"Kill me, and the sands will answer."
"Not today," Zaruko said. "But you will leave Kan Ogou on your knees or not at all."
The Duel of Words
In the firelight, under the watching eyes of the tribe, Elaru spoke again—but not to Zaruko.
"To the people," he said, turning to the crowd. "You have followed a stranger marked by an alien god. You feed your dead to flames that do not speak. You worship a silence."
He pointed to the forge.
"Do you know what it is to follow a god who has a body? A voice that commands? A hunger that protects?"
Jinba stepped forward. "And when that hunger turns on us? What then?"
Elaru smiled without humor. "Then you will have already served your purpose."
Zaruko raised a hand. The crowd quieted.
"My god has not yet come, because he does not need to. I am enough."
He stepped forward, standing toe to toe with Elaru.
"And when he does arrive — this forge will roar, this land will tremble, and gods like yours will choke on the iron of our will."
Elaru's eyes narrowed. For the first time, his composure cracked—just slightly.
"Then we will see whose silence is stronger."
He turned and walked into the dark. Where his feet touched earth, the grass blackened and crumbled.
A Council in the Ashlight
Later, inside the meeting hut, the council gathered.
Kael, arms crossed. Ayomi, deep in thought. Jinba with his war club beside him. A few younger warriors, Toma among them, leaned forward anxiously.
"He's right about one thing," said Toma. "We serve a god we do not know."
"He serves a god who eats his own worshippers," Kael snapped.
"It doesn't matter," said Ayomi. "What matters is the pressure building."
She looked to Zaruko. "You felt it, didn't you? At the forge."
Zaruko nodded slowly. "It wasn't fear. It was… waiting."
Kael tapped his fingers. "So what do we do?"
Jinba stood. "We prepare. We sharpen. We build."
Zaruko added, "And we remember — Ogou did not ask us to worship him. He waits for us to be ready to invite him."
Ayomi's voice was low. "Then we must learn how."
Night Visions and Ancient Dust
That night, Zaruko slept restlessly.
In his dream, he stood at the edge of an endless battlefield — iron banners torn by wind, broken blades buried in ash. The sky was red. The earth breathed.
A massive anvil stood before him, cracked down the center. Something stirred inside it.
He reached for it — but a voice stopped him.
"Not yet, child of fire."
He turned, and saw nothing but the glow of molten metal flowing like blood.
"First, shape yourself."
He awoke sweating, the sigil on his chest searing with warmth.
Preparations Begin
The next morning, Zaruko rose before the sun.
He went to the forge alone and placed a single offering before it — a small, handmade blade engraved with the sigil.
No flames leapt. No voice answered.
But the blade began to glow — not hot, but warm, like flesh.
From that day on, the villagers were instructed to begin preparing the Rite of Foundation — a ceremony not of worship, but of readiness.
They would build iron towers at the four corners of the village. They would create songs of the forge, passed from child to elder.
And Zaruko would begin carving a single statue — a body for Ogou, one piece at a time.
The Sands Still Watch
At the edge of the jungle, Elaru knelt beside the shattered shard of obsidian, now pulsing softly.
A serpent of sand coiled at his side.
"Soon," he whispered. "Soon he will call."
And the wind howled back.