The last frost had receded like a reluctant beast, leaving behind damp soil, cracked bark, and the quiet murmur of life daring to return. Spring in Ayeshe was not soft — it clawed its way into the world, dragging color and heat behind it. Trees shuddered with budding growth. Rivers, once frozen, ran wild. Beasts that had slumbered now prowled again, lean and hungry.
But within the borders of Kan Ogou, there was order.
Fields had already been plotted with geometric precision — irrigation dug by hand, ditches redirected based on Zaruko's understanding of old-world farming techniques. A mix of tropical staples now took root: root vegetables, dense legumes, towering grains. The warriors-turned-hunters were assigned patrols, and the newly minted military structure allowed for a system of communication across outposts.
Every week, the forge bell rang — and from the mouth of Ogou's temple, weapons were distributed, glowing faintly with power that whispered to those who bore them. No two were the same. No weapon obeyed unless earned.
But not all battles were fought with blades.
As the village settled into its rhythm, something softer took root.
Maela.
Her presence had always been quiet, steady — she didn't lead warbands or forge metal. But she was the first to volunteer when food needed gathering, the one who taught the younger children how to weave nets or press poultices. She never knelt before Ogou, but always left offerings — careful, simple ones. A small piece of salted meat. A flower braided into rope. And she never asked for anything in return.
Zaruko noticed.
One afternoon, as the forge roared behind them and steam lifted from the earth in slow curls, Maela approached him beneath a flowering tree on the edge of the village.
"I saw you staring at the fields today," she said.
He smiled, just slightly. "Habit. I keep expecting winter to sneak back and ruin everything."
"It might," she shrugged. "But maybe not today."
They stood in silence for a while. Zaruko's eyes drifted toward the cemetery in the distance — toward Yarenna's home, peaceful and still.
"So much has changed," he murmured. "And I've only been here… not even a full year."
Maela glanced at him. "You've built something worth protecting. People trust you. Even when they don't understand you."
Zaruko chuckled. "I barely understand myself some days."
"That's how I know you're honest."
There was a long pause between them.
Then, Maela reached out and placed something in his hand — a carved wooden figure. It was small, shaped like a lion with its mouth open, mid-roar. But etched across the side was the familiar sigil of Ogou.
"It's not a weapon," she said. "But I thought even warriors need reminders."
He didn't answer. Just closed his fingers around the figure.
That evening, the tribe gathered under the night sky, not for ceremony or command, but to share stories. Zaruko sat on a flat stone as children crowded around an elder who began to speak of beasts, fire, and stars. Warriors sharpened blades. Maela sat nearby, watching the stars, her fingers absentmindedly braiding cord.
And for the first time in a long while, Zaruko let his shoulders rest.
There would be battles again. There always were.
But tonight, there was something like peace.
And perhaps — just perhaps — a place for love to grow.
The fire pits across Kan Ogou flickered one by one, their smoke curling into the cooling spring air. The forge's constant hum remained—a heartbeat at the village center—but everything else seemed quieter now, like the world had exhaled.
Zaruko wandered away from the circle of laughter and tales. He needed the quiet. Not from weariness, but from weight. Every leader, he knew, bore invisible armor. And sometimes, the strongest thing one could do… was take it off, even briefly.
He found himself near the stone boundary wall, where the trees had begun blooming with thick violet blossoms. Their scent was strong tonight. Memory filled his lungs.
Back in the 21st century, there were days he longed for quiet like this. Just grass underfoot, wind brushing across skin. Not the roar of engines or the bark of command. Here, though, the quiet came with responsibility. Every peaceful moment had been earned—with blood, sweat, and decision.
"Couldn't sleep?" Maela's voice came from behind him.
He turned, surprised but not startled. She had a knack for appearing when needed, like the steady hand of dusk.
"Just… thinking," he said, offering a half-smile. "Seems like that's all I do lately."
"You think too much," she teased gently. "Sometimes the soil just needs water. Not analysis."
He chuckled and nodded toward the wooden figure still tucked into his belt. "Thank you, again. For this."
"It's not much."
"It's exactly what I needed."
She hesitated before stepping closer, close enough that their shoulders nearly brushed. Her voice dropped low.
"Do you ever wonder… if you'll stay? Here, I mean. Not just to lead, or fight. But… to live."
Zaruko's breath caught. No one had asked him that before. Not in a way that made it feel like a real possibility.
"I used to think this was a punishment," he admitted. "Being pulled from everything I knew. But the longer I'm here… the more it feels like I was brought to something."
"To us?"
"To myself," he answered honestly. "And maybe… yes. To all of you."
They stood like that for a while, the sounds of village life behind them—children's laughter, soft drums, blades being cleaned, goats bleating somewhere near the pens.
Then, almost without thinking, Maela reached for his hand. She didn't grip it tightly. Just let her fingers brush his, testing something unspoken.
And Zaruko, the warrior who had crossed worlds, who had faced gods and monsters and the burden of leadership—felt warmth flood his chest that had nothing to do with fire.
It was not a promise. Not yet.
But it was a beginning.