The trees were wrong.
Zaruko knew it the moment he stepped into the glade just north of the ridge.
It wasn't the silence that gave it away — Ayeshe had many silent places. It was that nothing moved. No wind through the leaves. No rustling. No insects. Even the birds were gone.
He knelt, brushing fingers across the dry soil.
Still warm.
Too warm.
There had been fire here recently, but no visible burn marks. No charcoal. No ashes. Just emptiness — as if the life itself had been boiled out of the land.
He stood slowly and scanned the forest line.
Maela's voice came softly behind him.
"You feel it too."
Zaruko nodded without turning.
"Something passed through here. Not man. Not beast."
She stepped beside him, arms crossed. Her face, normally unreadable, was tight with unease.
"The scouts are speaking of strange omens. Thorned plants growing in circles. Rot where there should be water. A shrike nailed to a tree with its wings torn off — facing the east."
Zaruko's jaw tensed. "It's a message."
"From who?"
He looked toward the fading horizon, where red dusk painted the sky like blood across cloth.
"I don't know yet. But it's walking toward us."
That night, Zaruko sharpened his blade for the fourth time, though it was already razor-perfect. The rhythmic rasp of stone on steel filled his tent like a meditation.
Each stroke, each drag, was a prayer in its own way.
Ogou had not spoken since the night of the second mark.
But his presence was louder now.
The sigil pulsed whenever Zaruko gripped his weapon. The iron in his hand seemed to hum in rhythm with the god's silent heartbeat.
There were no visions.
No firestorms or voices from beyond.
But there was this feeling.
A coming clash.
A divine one.
At the edge of the camp, the guards paced in tighter circles. Fires were placed closer together. Eyes were restless.
Everyone felt it — even those who didn't understand it.
One boy had fallen into a trance by the river and woken with a mouth full of thorns.
Another woman said she saw a man of vines watching her from the trees — his skin black with sap, his eyes gleaming green.
Zaruko listened to each report.
He said nothing.
But deep inside, his grip on the truth tightened.
He had felt wars before. Human ones.
But this?
This was a god's kind of war.
The Emissary reached the broken plateau that marked the border of old tribal territory. Here, hundreds of years ago, two gods had once fought over worshippers — one of sky and one of clay.
Both had been banished.
Their followers slaughtered.
The land was cursed.
But the Emissary walked untroubled.
The thorns sprouted in his wake, blooming red flowers that stank of copper and smoke.
He knelt at the ancient stones.
Whispered into the cracks.
He called upon old blood.
"He walks with iron. Let me drag it into the roots."
The air twisted.
A black wind rose and circled him, then darted northward, a harbinger unseen by human eyes.
The war god's fire was calling attention.
And the thorns would answer.
Zaruko's dream that night was not a dream.
He was back in the swamp — but it wasn't the swamp he knew.
It was darker.
Heavier.
And in the center, a massive altar stood — not Ogou's flame, but a twisted, thorn-wrapped effigy made from the bones of something that had once been divine.
From its center grew a black spear, humming with corruption.
The air crackled.
And then he saw him — the Emissary — walking between dying trees, barefoot, arms dripping sap, vines coiling like snakes around his chest.
He smiled with a mouth too wide.
And spoke without sound.
"You do not belong."
Zaruko woke gasping, drenched in sweat.
His sigil glowed faintly in the dark.
Maela burst into the tent a moment later, spear in hand.
"You felt it too?" she said, voice breathless.
He nodded.
"They're close," she whispered. "Something is trying to push through."
Before dawn, Zaruko gathered his best fighters.
He didn't explain the dream. Not directly.
He simply said: "Something ancient is hunting us. We'll meet it before it reaches the camp."
He took seven with him — Maela, two older warriors, a silent archer, and three who had once served in a raider band but now wore ash like armor.
They followed him into the woods before the sun touched the trees.
By midday, the signs were clear.
Dead animals. Inverted roots. Birds torn apart and arranged in spirals. The very air felt thicker — heavier, like walking through oil.
The wind stopped.
And ahead, just past the ridge, the trees opened into a clearing blackened at the center, as if fire had once raged — but without burning a single branch.
They stepped in slowly.
And then they saw him.
The Emissary stood atop a jagged stump, vines hanging from his shoulders like a priest's robe.
He held no weapon.
But his body was one — covered in thorn runes, his veins glowing green beneath his skin.
He looked up as they approached.
No fear.
No surprise.
Only curiosity.
"Which of you carries the iron?" he asked.
Zaruko stepped forward.
His hand rested on the hilt of his blade, but he did not draw.
"I do."
The Emissary nodded slowly.
"You should not exist."
"That's not your call."
"It is mine," the Emissary said softly. "You were not shaped by our world. You carry fire that was never lit here. You walk with a god not born of Ayeshe."
Zaruko's eyes narrowed. "You know nothing of Ogou."
"I know enough," the Emissary said, voice low like soil shifting. "He has no name in this land. No root. No worshipper but you. That makes him weak."
Zaruko drew his blade in one slow motion.
The sigil flared on his forearm, red as blood, bright as sunrise.
"He doesn't need a thousand worshippers."
He stepped forward.
"He has me."
The Emissary's smile vanished.
Vines erupted from the earth.
Zaruko struck first.
Iron met thorn.
And the divine war began.
The trees were wrong.
Zaruko knew it the moment he stepped into the glade just north of the ridge.
It wasn't the silence that gave it away — Ayeshe had many silent places. It was that nothing moved. No wind through the leaves. No rustling. No insects. Even the birds were gone.
He knelt, brushing fingers across the dry soil.
Still warm.
Too warm.
There had been fire here recently, but no visible burn marks. No charcoal. No ashes. Just emptiness — as if the life itself had been boiled out of the land.
He stood slowly and scanned the forest line.
Maela's voice came softly behind him.
"You feel it too."
Zaruko nodded without turning.
"Something passed through here. Not man. Not beast."
She stepped beside him, arms crossed. Her face, normally unreadable, was tight with unease.
"The scouts are speaking of strange omens. Thorned plants growing in circles. Rot where there should be water. A shrike nailed to a tree with its wings torn off — facing the east."
Zaruko's jaw tensed. "It's a message."
"From who?"
He looked toward the fading horizon, where red dusk painted the sky like blood across cloth.
"I don't know yet. But it's walking toward us."
That night, Zaruko sharpened his blade for the fourth time, though it was already razor-perfect. The rhythmic rasp of stone on steel filled his tent like a meditation.
Each stroke, each drag, was a prayer in its own way.
Ogou had not spoken since the night of the second mark.
But his presence was louder now.
The sigil pulsed whenever Zaruko gripped his weapon. The iron in his hand seemed to hum in rhythm with the god's silent heartbeat.
There were no visions.
No firestorms or voices from beyond.
But there was this feeling.
A coming clash.
A divine one.
At the edge of the camp, the guards paced in tighter circles. Fires were placed closer together. Eyes were restless.
Everyone felt it — even those who didn't understand it.
One boy had fallen into a trance by the river and woken with a mouth full of thorns.
Another woman said she saw a man of vines watching her from the trees — his skin black with sap, his eyes gleaming green.
Zaruko listened to each report.
He said nothing.
But deep inside, his grip on the truth tightened.
He had felt wars before. Human ones.
But this?
This was a god's kind of war.
The Emissary reached the broken plateau that marked the border of old tribal territory. Here, hundreds of years ago, two gods had once fought over worshippers — one of sky and one of clay.
Both had been banished.
Their followers slaughtered.
The land was cursed.
But the Emissary walked untroubled.
The thorns sprouted in his wake, blooming red flowers that stank of copper and smoke.
He knelt at the ancient stones.
Whispered into the cracks.
He called upon old blood.
"He walks with iron. Let me drag it into the roots."
The air twisted.
A black wind rose and circled him, then darted northward, a harbinger unseen by human eyes.
The war god's fire was calling attention.
And the thorns would answer.
Zaruko's dream that night was not a dream.
He was back in the swamp — but it wasn't the swamp he knew.
It was darker.
Heavier.
And in the center, a massive altar stood — not Ogou's flame, but a twisted, thorn-wrapped effigy made from the bones of something that had once been divine.
From its center grew a black spear, humming with corruption.
The air crackled.
And then he saw him — the Emissary — walking between dying trees, barefoot, arms dripping sap, vines coiling like snakes around his chest.
He smiled with a mouth too wide.
And spoke without sound.
"You do not belong."
Zaruko woke gasping, drenched in sweat.
His sigil glowed faintly in the dark.
Maela burst into the tent a moment later, spear in hand.
"You felt it too?" she said, voice breathless.
He nodded.
"They're close," she whispered. "Something is trying to push through."
Before dawn, Zaruko gathered his best fighters.
He didn't explain the dream. Not directly.
He simply said: "Something ancient is hunting us. We'll meet it before it reaches the camp."
He took seven with him — Maela, two older warriors, a silent archer, and three who had once served in a raider band but now wore ash like armor.
They followed him into the woods before the sun touched the trees.
By midday, the signs were clear.
Dead animals. Inverted roots. Birds torn apart and arranged in spirals. The very air felt thicker — heavier, like walking through oil.
The wind stopped.
And ahead, just past the ridge, the trees opened into a clearing blackened at the center, as if fire had once raged — but without burning a single branch.
They stepped in slowly.
And then they saw him.
The Emissary stood atop a jagged stump, vines hanging from his shoulders like a priest's robe.
He held no weapon.
But his body was one — covered in thorn runes, his veins glowing green beneath his skin.
He looked up as they approached.
No fear.
No surprise.
Only curiosity.
"Which of you carries the iron?" he asked.
Zaruko stepped forward.
His hand rested on the hilt of his blade, but he did not draw.
"I do."
The Emissary nodded slowly.
"You should not exist."
"That's not your call."
"It is mine," the Emissary said softly. "You were not shaped by our world. You carry fire that was never lit here. You walk with a god not born of Ayeshe."
Zaruko's eyes narrowed. "You know nothing of Ogou."
"I know enough," the Emissary said, voice low like soil shifting. "He has no name in this land. No root. No worshipper but you. That makes him weak."
Zaruko drew his blade in one slow motion.
The sigil flared on his forearm, red as blood, bright as sunrise.
"He doesn't need a thousand worshippers."
He stepped forward.
"He has me."
The Emissary's smile vanished.
Vines erupted from the earth.
Zaruko struck first.
Iron met thorn.
And the divine war began.