The jungle had gone silent.
No birdsong, no rustling leaves, not even the insects dared speak. It was the kind of silence Zaruko had learned to fear in his former life — the calm before a storm, or worse, the moment just before a decision that couldn't be undone.
He stood at the edge of the sacred clearing, a place the villagers had named Tanbou Dife — the Drum of Fire. Here, in a ring of scorched earth where no tree dared grow, Ogou's presence was strongest. It was the place where the first offering had vanished in flame, and where his sigil had once seared itself into a blackened boulder.
Before him, his people — warriors, scouts, builders, and hunters — knelt in a semi-circle, heads bowed. They had begun as survivors, scattered and broken. Now they were a unit, forged by Zaruko's guidance and hardened by the cruel world of Ayeshe.
Tonight, they would offer Ogou their plea for victory.
Tomorrow, they would make war.
Zaruko knelt before the boulder, placing his right hand flat against the stone. Its surface was still warm from the last ritual, though no fire had touched it in days. He could feel the faint pulse of energy beneath it — like a forge slowly heating, waiting for the bellows to awaken it.
Behind him, someone stepped forward. It was Aliné, a young hunter who had proven herself fiercely loyal. She carried the offering: a handcrafted iron blade, wrapped in red cloth and soaked in blood from the morning's hunt. The blade bore no sigil, but its purpose was clear — an instrument of survival, now turned into an offering of strength.
Zaruko took it gently and rose.
"Ogou," he said, his voice low and firm, "you who walk in flame and drink iron like wine… I come not as your priest, but as your sword."
The villagers listened in reverent silence.
"I offer what this world has not given me freely — a weapon made with no magic, no divine blessing, only sweat and will. I ask for your fire. Not to burn my enemies, but to forge my people into steel."
He pressed the blade against the stone.
There was no wind, no spark.
Then the red cloth ignited without flame. A column of black smoke rose upward, spinning in a slow spiral. The blade vanished, sinking into the stone like it had never existed. No sound. No heat. Just absence.
And then — the boulder cracked.
Not shattered, but split — a thin red line opening like a glowing wound across its surface. It pulsed once, then sealed, leaving behind nothing but a faint iron scent in the air.
The villagers gasped. Some bowed. Others simply wept.
Ogou had accepted.
Later, around the fire, Zaruko addressed the camp.
"Tomorrow, we strike the Bone-Eaters," he said, his voice echoing across the clearing. "They've taken from smaller tribes, slaughtered families, and enslaved the weak. They worship no god. They think brute strength is all that matters."
He paced slowly.
"But they've never fought warriors trained by discipline. They've never fought soldiers who march in silence, who strike in rhythm, who kill not in rage — but in purpose."
A murmur of pride moved through the crowd.
"They think we are weak because we build. Because we hunt together. Because we share what we kill. Let them think it. Let them believe they can outmuscle us."
He stopped, eyes glowing in the firelight.
"They will learn that steel sings louder than bone."
The villagers erupted — not in wild chaos, but in a deep, rhythmic thumping of fists against chests. A war-beat. His beat.
But not all shared their joy.
Zaruko was returning to his shelter when Manno, a former war-captive who had recently joined the tribe, blocked his path.
"You speak like a god," Manno said coldly. "But bleed like a man."
Zaruko didn't react.
"I fought for three tribes," Manno continued. "All of them had leaders who spoke of discipline. Of building. Of gods. They all died."
"And yet here you stand," Zaruko replied, "wearing my tribe's food, drinking our water, training with my warriors."
"You think your god will protect you? I saw no fire. I saw a trick."
Zaruko stepped closer, but not in anger. In understanding.
"I don't need you to believe in Ogou," he said quietly. "But you will believe in the consequences of crossing him."
For a moment, it looked like Manno might challenge him. But then something passed over the man's eyes — recognition. Or perhaps fear. He stepped aside.
Zaruko walked on.
That night, as the fires dimmed and the stars revealed themselves through the cracks in the canopy, Zaruko sat alone near the sacred boulder. He stared at the red line that now glowed faintly, as if the stone held a hidden forge within.
He unwrapped his arm and looked at his sigil — the mark of Ogou, reborn. The ink that no longer smeared, the scar that never healed.
It wasn't just a tattoo. It was a brand. A truth.
He remembered the stories his grandmother used to tell. Of men like Makandal, Dessalines, and Christophe. Of blades hidden in cane fields. Of iron spirits who gave slaves the strength to shatter empires.
Ogou was not a god of mercy.
He was a god of memory.
And memory was fire.
At dawn, the warriors gathered. Their faces painted with red clay. Their weapons sharpened. Their bodies armored in bark, bone, and hide.
Zaruko stood at the front, spear in hand, the light catching the edge of his sigil.
He didn't give a speech. He didn't need to.
Instead, he turned to the jungle and marched.
And his people followed.
Back at Tanbou Dife, the sacred clearing remained quiet. But the red line in the stone flared once more, then dimmed, pulsing like a heart.
And far, far away, in the world beyond veils and flames, Ogou watched.
He saw not worship, but order. Not blind faith, but earned loyalty. And he smiled — not as a father to a child, but as a warrior recognizing another.
His blade had been awakened.
And soon, the world would bleed.