They reached the upper highlands by dusk.
The climb had tested every limb, every breath. Children wept quietly as their parents dragged them up jagged paths. The wounded were lifted on makeshift litters, and Maela's hunters scouted twice the distance with half the sleep.
But they made it.
The plateau was smaller than Zaruko hoped, but it had what they needed—stone overhangs for shelter, runoff pools for fresh water, and a single narrow path for defense.
They didn't speak much when they arrived.
They simply sat, as if the act of surviving had stolen their words.
Zaruko stood apart, overlooking the vast stretch of forest below. The mark on his arm was calm now—cool even—but still visible beneath his torn wrappings. Like a heartbeat trapped in ink.
He didn't feel triumphant.
He felt watched.
Later that night, as the stars scattered over the cliffs, Maela joined him again. She brought roasted root, dried meat, and silence.
"You're not eating," she said after a while.
"Not hungry," Zaruko replied.
"You bled more than anyone. You need strength."
He didn't answer.
She sat beside him, drawing her knees to her chest. "They believe in you now."
He gave a short, bitter laugh. "Belief is cheap when there's nothing else to hold onto."
"But not all of them are afraid of you anymore."
Zaruko glanced at her. "No? Then what are they?"
She shrugged. "Curious. Hopeful. Maybe even willing."
He stared back into the dark. "I didn't ask for that."
"Doesn't matter. You carry fire now, Zaruko. People follow flame. Even if it burns them."
The first strangers came at dawn.
There were only five of them—three adults and two teens, all clothed in rough bark-fiber tunics, skin covered in old soot, lips cracked from wind and hunger.
The guards nearly speared them where they stood, thinking them scouts. But Zaruko arrived before anyone could strike.
They dropped to their knees the moment they saw him.
"You're the one," the eldest said. "The fire-marked. The god-carrier."
Zaruko said nothing, studying them.
"Where are you from?" he asked.
"Broken Earth," the woman said, voice shaking. "We lived near the old stone fields. A raiding clan came… killed our chief. Burned our homes. We escaped with nothing."
Tavin stepped forward, suspicious. "How did you find us?"
The younger boy answered. "Word spreads. People saw light on the mountain. Fire without smoke. They said the flames sang."
Zaruko narrowed his eyes.
That wasn't possible.
Was it?
Maela leaned closer to him. "They're not lying."
"No," Zaruko whispered. "That's what I'm afraid of."
They allowed the strangers to stay—but not without tension.
Some in the tribe, especially those who still feared Zaruko's power, saw the newcomers as a threat. Spies. Worshippers. Mad ones drawn to unnatural fire.
But others…
Others saw something more.
Hope.
If survivors were coming, maybe they weren't just hiding anymore. Maybe they were building.
That evening, Zaruko stood before the tribe—those who had followed him from the lowlands, and the five newcomers watching from the edge of the firelight.
He took a deep breath.
"I never asked to lead," he said. "I was born in another world. I came here… by force. By accident. I don't have stories that match your gods or ancestors. I don't know your prayers. But I know war. I know loss. And I know this—"
He pulled back the cloth from his arm.
The sigil burned softly, not in rage, but in presence.
"I carry something inside me. A voice from where I come from. A force called Ogou. He's not your god. Not yet. But he heard me. He came when we were dying. He fought beside me."
Gasps rippled through the crowd.
Tavin shifted uneasily, but did not interrupt.
Zaruko stepped forward.
"I'm not a shaman. I'm not a prophet. I'm a warrior. And if we are going to survive, to build, then we fight. And fight not just to live—but to take back what was stolen."
He raised his arm higher.
"This fire… is not just mine anymore. If you stay, if you follow me, then it becomes ours."
No one clapped.
No one cheered.
But not a single soul walked away.
Three days later, more came.
A group of twelve this time—haggard, wounded, carrying the body of a woman who had died on the path. They did not ask to stay. They simply dropped to their knees and placed the body at Zaruko's feet.
"She said to find the fire," a boy whispered. "She said it would save us."
Zaruko stared down at the dead woman.
He had never known her.
And yet, the mark on his arm pulsed softly, like a heartbeat of mourning.
He ordered a burial, then gave them food.
On the seventh night, the dreams returned.
But this one was not from Ogou.
He stood in a place unlike any he'd seen—a grove of black glass, trees made from obsidian, their leaves like razors.
A figure sat on a throne of bones and pale bark. It wore no face—just a mirrored mask reflecting Zaruko's own.
"You burned a path," it said, voice distant and hollow. "Now others walk it."
Zaruko tried to move, but his feet were rooted.
"Who are you?" he asked.
"Not yours," the voice replied. "Not yet. But your fire blinds the old ones. They stir now. And not all are kind."
Lightning cracked across the sky. The glass trees shook.
"I do not come to fight," the voice said. "I come to witness. And to send warning."
Zaruko's chest grew cold.
"You are not the only one marked by something beyond this world."
Then everything shattered—
And he woke.
He sat up in the dark, sweat pouring down his neck. His heart thundered.
The fire had burned out.
The night was quiet.
But the sigil was no longer calm.
It burned again—not with light, but with movement.
It twisted ever so slightly.
Changing.
In the coming days, three more groups arrived. Some walked for days. Some had no food. Many were armed only with grief.
And all of them bowed before Zaruko.
Not because he demanded it.
But because they saw the mark.
And because the wind now carried a name whispered from tribe to tribe:
Firebearer. God-called. Flame Chief.
Zaruko hated it.
But he said nothing.
And accepted them all.
Far from the highlands, in a shattered swamp where bones melted in dark water, a new figure emerged.
He wore animal hides stitched with skin. His eyes were pure white. And in his chest pulsed a mark.
Not flame.
Not Ogou.
But rot.
He turned to the priests behind him, mouths sewn shut, and whispered, "The fire has awakened. Tell the god of thorns we ride before the new moon. Let him prepare his teeth."