The obsidian shard was gone by morning.
No footprints remained. No marks in the soil. Only a patch of scorched earth and the faint scent of burnt metal, like the forge had breathed outward during the night.
Zaruko stood alone at the site where Elaru had vanished. He traced the earth with the butt of his spear, drawing lines that made no symbols, only motion—just something to keep his hands from trembling.
He hadn't slept since the dream.
Not truly.
"One god waits. Another listens…"
That second voice—deeper than even Ogou's silence—still echoed behind his ribs. A buried weight. A warning, maybe. Or a promise.
Behind him, the village stirred. The air held tension again, but this time it wasn't fear. It was anticipation. Decision. Resolve.
They had not chosen Ogou because he demanded their loyalty.
They chose because they wanted to build.
The forge was no longer just a tool. It had become something else. A center. A heart.
And if a god needed a body…
Zaruko turned toward the forge.
Then they would give him one.
The village square—once nothing more than packed dirt between huts—had become something sacred.
Children gathered at the edge, carrying stones and bundles of dried vine. Hunters dropped their spears and shouldered carved blocks of darkwood and ironbark. Women sang songs without names as they sharpened chisels and tempered bronze in small clay kilns.
Zaruko watched them from the steps of the forge.
He had said nothing about building a statue. Not to them. Not aloud. But somehow, the people knew.
Whether it came in dreams or whispers or instinct, they moved as one—like the forge had planted an idea inside them all.
"The flame is spreading," Maela murmured beside him. "Not just in you."
She wore paint across her cheekbone, a single red line from eye to ear. Not a symbol. Just color—like blood drying from a wound that refused to close.
Zaruko nodded. "They've accepted the fire. Even if it hasn't spoken."
"They don't need it to speak," she said. "They believe in what it might become."
That word haunted him.
Might.
Because he still didn't know what Ogou wanted. If anything.
He turned to her. "We begin at dusk. Let it rise in shadow, not sun."
Maela's gaze hardened. "Why?"
Zaruko touched the scarred sigil on his chest.
"Because fire teaches best in darkness."
The sun began its slow descent behind the jungle canopy, sending shafts of amber light through the thick leaves. The villagers gathered again, their hands now calloused from hauling stone and hammering bronze. At the center of the square, a rough frame of darkwood had taken shape, held together with braided vines and smoothed with practiced hands. This would be the foundation of Ogou's statue—the body for a god who had yet to speak.
Zaruko stepped forward, spear in hand, the weight of his ancestors and the new life he carried pressing into his bones. Maela walked beside him, the familiar steady presence he needed.
"This is only the beginning," Zaruko said quietly, addressing the growing crowd. "We build not just stone, but a future."
Jinba, the tribe's oldest warrior, grunted in approval from the side. "And every hammer strike is a prayer."
The rhythmic pounding began—a chorus of raw effort and hope. As the night deepened, shadows stretched long, and Zaruko felt the heat from the forge wash over him, stronger than before. The earth beneath his feet seemed to pulse faintly, a heartbeat entwined with his own.
Maela touched his arm, her voice low. "Do you feel it?"
He nodded. "The fire moves through the ground. It waits."
A murmur passed through the villagers—excitement and uncertainty intertwined. Some kept their eyes on the growing statue frame; others glanced nervously toward the thick jungle beyond, where unseen eyes watched, and ancient forces stirred.
Zaruko's gaze shifted upward to the darkening sky, where stars blinked awake.
"Ogou watches," he whispered, "even in silence."
The night wore on. Dreams came to the people—visions of iron rivers, blazing forges, and shadows clawing beneath stone. The children dreamt of flames that danced without heat and whispered promises carried on the wind. Mothers held their young tighter, sensing the weight of something old and powerful awakening beneath the soil.
But Zaruko kept his own dreams secret—visions fragmented and cryptic.
In one, the forge itself breathed like a living thing, veins of molten metal coursing through blackened rock. A voice echoed, not in words, but in the pounding rhythm of a hammer:
"Build the body. Feed the flame. Awake the god."
The village night deepened, folding the world in shadows and the low crackle of firelight. The great frame of the statue loomed like a skeletal giant, its rough silhouette shaped by the hands of a tribe united by something greater than survival—a fragile, growing faith.
Zaruko and Maela moved among the workers, their voices low but steady, encouraging.
"We shape the body not just for a god," Zaruko said, "but for ourselves. A symbol of strength to hold in the darkest times."
Maela nodded, her eyes bright in the firelight. "And a reminder. That even silence can roar."
Around the forge, sparks floated like fireflies, carried by the night breeze. The air was thick with the scent of smoke, iron, and wet earth. Children huddled near elders, hearing stories old as the land—stories that began to weave Ogou into their collective memory, even if the god had not yet spoken.
A young boy, no older than ten, tugged at Maela's sleeve. "Will the god come soon?"
She smiled softly, crouching to meet his gaze. "He will come when the fire is ready to speak. Until then, we keep building."
Zaruko caught the exchange and felt a strange mixture of hope and burden. The weight of unseen eyes pressed on him, reminding him of the god who waited in silence—and the enemy watching from the shadows beyond their fragile walls.
Hours later, Zaruko stood near the growing statue frame, his breath visible in the cool night air. The sigil burned faintly beneath his skin, a secret warmth only he could feel. Maela approached quietly, holding two cups of bitter root tea.
She offered one, and they sat side by side, watching the forge flicker.
"Do you think the god will truly come?" she asked.
Zaruko sipped the tea, its bitter edge grounding him. "He already is. Not in form, but in fire. The earth shifts beneath us."
A sudden crack echoed—a sharp report from the far side of the village. Heads turned, hearts pounding.
Jinba appeared, spear in hand, eyes narrowed.
"Beasts," he said grimly. "Hungry and bold."
The villagers fell silent, the fragile moment shattered.
Zaruko stood, spear ready. "We will not falter."
The threat forced urgency. The statue's frame would have to wait; survival came first.
Villagers armed themselves, using whatever weapons they had—spears, sharpened sticks, slings crafted from woven fibers. The jungle's growls and distant roars stirred the night air with menace.
Zaruko moved through the crowd, steadying nerves, directing defenses.
Maela stayed close, her steady presence a calm amid the rising storm.
The first wave of beasts struck under moonlight—feral, hungry creatures whose eyes glowed with primal hunger. But the tribe fought back fiercely, their unity and Zaruko's leadership turning desperation into strength.
When the last growl faded, the village stood bloodied but unbroken.
As dawn crept over the horizon, Zaruko returned to the forge alone.
He knelt before the statue's skeleton, placing a hand on the darkwood.
"You will be more than wood and stone," he whispered. "You will be the heart of Kan Ogou."
The wind stirred, carrying the faintest scent of iron and smoke. The air felt electric, charged with a promise.
In the days that followed, the village returned to the statue. The work resumed, now with a new urgency—not just to build a symbol, but to prepare for the coming presence.
Maela gathered the women and children, teaching them songs and stories, weaving the god's silent promise into the tribe's growing culture.
Zaruko worked with the hunters, sharpening weapons and training guards. The sigil beneath his skin flared with warmth—an echo of a fire waiting to ignite.
One night, as Zaruko lay near the forge, his sleep shattered by visions, he saw a figure—massive, forged from living metal and fire. Its eyes blazed like molten rock. The forge breathed behind it, alive and watching.
The figure spoke—not with words, but with a sound like a hammer striking an anvil:
"The body takes shape. The flame grows. Soon, I will walk."
Zaruko awoke drenched in sweat, the first true sign that Ogou's power stirred in the world.