It started with smoke — a thin gray ribbon curling into the sky from the horizon where the jungle gave way to the southern hills.
At first, Zaruko thought it was another storm fire, the kind sparked by lightning and left to eat trees until rain doused it. But then came the runner. A girl no older than sixteen, barefoot, breathless, mud on her arms, terror in her eyes.
She collapsed at the edge of Kan Ogou's clearing. They rushed her to the forge. Not because she was important, but because all things of consequence now passed through Ogou's flame.
When Zaruko knelt beside her, she clutched his wrist with cracked fingers.
"They're coming," she whispered. "Not like you. Not like them."
She pointed to the smoke.
"They burn to feed their god."
Zaruko rose without a word. His captains gathered around him under the canopy near the forge. The air smelled of ash. Far to the south, the thin smoke thread had doubled in size.
"She said they burn villages?" asked Aliné, frowning. "What god needs fire and fear?"
Jaleen muttered, "The old kind. The ones that take more than they give."
Zaruko stared toward the horizon. He'd fought men who believed violence brought divinity. He knew what it meant when faith became hunger.
He turned to the captains.
"We move at dusk. Recon only. No engagement."
Then, softer: "If we wait, the fire may reach us before the god does."
That night, Zaruko and ten warriors crossed the southern trail. They moved silently, ghostlike through the underbrush. No torches, no drums, just breath and instinct.
By midnight, they crested the ridge of the hill and saw it.
Smoke.
Camps.
Cages.
Dozens of people penned like animals — women, elders, children — some with branded forearms, others with burned-out eyes. Towering above them was a wooden effigy — a crude god with a horned head, open hands, and an empty ribcage stuffed with glowing embers.
It was fed constantly — not with offerings, but with fear.
The tribe below wore cracked masks made of bark and bone. Their bodies painted with soot. They moved in pairs, always in circles, never stopping. Whispering. Watching.
And in the center of their camp stood a woman.
She was tall, lean, wrapped in black vines that moved as if alive. Her face was uncovered. Her eyes glowed red.
Zaruko froze.
There was divinity in that gaze.
Faint, yes — but real.
"She's a priestess," Aliné murmured. "Or worse."
Zaruko watched as she placed her hands against the effigy's ribs. The fire inside pulsed. And for a moment, the air bent around her.
He pulled back. "We leave now."
"But the captives—" someone started.
"Now."
By dawn, they were back at Kan Ogou.
The council met immediately. Zaruko laid out what they'd seen — the cages, the god-effigy, the priestess with the flame.
"She's touched by something," he said. "Not a true god like Ogou. But something that eats like one."
Jaleen's jaw tightened. "They're coming north?"
"Yes. Slowly. Deliberately."
"They're not burning the jungle," Bem added. "They're burning people."
Zaruko nodded grimly.
"And they will burn us if we wait."
The council debated.
Some wanted to fortify. Others argued for striking now, freeing the captives. One suggested abandoning Kan Ogou altogether and scattering into the jungle until the fire passed.
Zaruko listened. Then stood.
"We don't run. Not because we're proud. But because this land — this forge — is sacred. We gave it meaning. Ogou accepted our blood and steel. We built this."
He paced.
"This won't be a raid. This will be a war."
That night, he went to the forge alone. The anvil was still warm. His sigil glowed faintly beneath the skin.
He placed a bone knife on the stone.
"I don't ask for power," he whispered. "I ask for resolve. Not for myself — for them."
He didn't expect an answer.
But when he turned, the forge's coals burned brighter.
And a second later, the knife vanished.
The next morning, Kan Ogou became a fortress.
Barricades were reinforced, sentries posted at every entrance. Traps were laid across the jungle paths. Water and rations were stockpiled.
Zaruko held a spear-drill at the central clearing — not for show, but for muscle memory. They practiced the turn-circle, the iron-line, and shadow sweep. No one was spared. Even the elderly were assigned roles: scouts, cooks, ash-layers for the fires.
The children learned to carry messages in code — knots, feathers, and painted shells.
No one would be useless.
Everyone would survive.
By the fifth day, scouts returned with news.
The fire cult had moved. Slowly. But directly.
Two days' march.
And they'd left no captives behind this time.
Zaruko sat with his captains by firelight. A map of charcoal lines and palm bark lay between them.
"They'll reach the outer traps by sunrise," Aliné said. "They move in a V-formation — disciplined."
"No god walks with them," Jaleen noted. "Not physically."
"But their priestess does," Bem added. "And she's worse. You saw what she did to the effigy."
Zaruko exhaled.
"They want our forge."
They all went quiet.
Then Zaruko looked up.
"Then we burn theirs."
He led the first strike himself.
Just before dawn, with mist rolling over the underbrush and frogs singing in the marshes, he took a team of ten deep behind enemy lines.
They found the effigy left at their last burn site — smoldering but still sacred.
It took three warriors and a flask of black oil to light it up.
When the fire caught, it let out a shriek — not a sound, but a pressure. A gasp of pain that pulsed through the trees.
Zaruko smiled.
"Let her feel that."
Back at Kan Ogou, the forge boiled with energy.
When the warriors returned, they found red smoke rising from the anvil.
Offerings were burned that night in silence.
And the next morning, the ground trembled — just slightly.
The forge had awoken.
And Ogou was ready.
Zaruko stood before the forge as it pulsed with a low, iron hum. The red smoke rising from the anvil twisted into patterns no one recognized — not yet. Some claimed they saw swords in the smoke. Others swore they saw wings. Zaruko said nothing.
He placed his hand on the edge of the stone.
"If you are with me," he whispered, "then strike as I would strike."
The smoke paused. Then curled forward — not up, but toward the jungle.
Toward the enemy.
The forge did not speak. But its silence was not emptiness.
It was promise.