The dawn after the vision brought no rest.
Zaruko stood alone atop the rise behind the forge, where stone met jungle and the air shifted with every breath of the world. Below, the statue's frame cast long shadows over the village — now more shrine than home.
He could still feel the voice from his dream, like iron ringing inside his ribs. Ogou was coming. Not in metaphor. Not in whispers. In flesh.
And the world would not wait patiently.
Far beyond the eastern ridges, black smoke curled into the sky — not from forge or fire, but from something hungrier. Older. The scouts had not yet returned. The beasts no longer fled their fires. And the air tasted like metal.
Maela joined him, wrapping a cloak around her shoulders. She said nothing at first — she didn't need to. The silence was thick with knowing.
"It's changing," she finally said. "All of it."
Zaruko nodded. "We called fire into the world. Now it answers."
As they watched the distant smoke twist like a serpent across the sky, a single thought settled in Zaruko's chest, heavy as a blade:
The god would soon have a body.
But so would the enemy.
The first tremor came at midday.
A subtle shift—barely more than a breath through the bones of the earth—but every seasoned hunter in Kan Ogou felt it in the soles of their feet. The animals, too, moved differently. Birds that never flew in daylight took to the sky in panicked spirals. The river frogs stopped singing. The forge fires, left burning low, flared once without cause, then settled.
Zaruko stood at the statue's base, hands stained with ash and oil. The final piece was almost ready: the face.
He had held off on that part—waiting, perhaps foolishly, for some sign from Ogou. And now… something stirred beneath the jungle. Not metaphor. Not omen. A truth that pushed through bark, soil, and silence.
"He's close," Zaruko said aloud, voice low.
"So close the earth holds its breath."
Maela approached, her bare feet silent on the packed ground. Her gaze moved over the unfinished statue and then to Zaruko. "You dreamed again?"
He gave a short nod. "He will need more than flame and stone. He will need blood."
Maela didn't flinch. "Then we must give it freely."
Behind them, the villagers began to gather—drawn not by orders, but instinct. The forge pulsed with heat. The statue seemed to hum beneath their hands. And deep underground, something awakened.
The world held its breath.
Lightning tore across the heavens, striking one jagged bolt after another, each flash pounding the sky like the blows of a colossal hammer. Thunder roared so fiercely it seemed to shake the very foundations of the earth — even the gods themselves would have been unsettled by such fury. The clouds churned and billowed, glowing with deep hues of ember and ash, swirling as if aflame, casting a fiery glow across the darkened land.
From the unknown, the relentless hammering of metal echoed—a sound both alien and primal—resonating through the valley and setting nerves on edge. The fiercest beasts, sensing the gathering storm of divine power, slipped silently into the shadows, hiding in the underbrush, their instincts warning them of the god's arrival.
In the center of the tribe, knees pressed to the earth, the people bowed in awe and fear. Their breath caught in their throats, every eye cast upward, every heart pounding with a mixture of hope and dread.
Maela stood apart, her face tight with worry. She glanced at Zaruko, whispering, "Are we certain of the god we have called here? What kind of fury have we invited as our protector?"
Zaruko said nothing, his gaze fixed on the heavens as the air crackled and the storm's power grew.
Then, the sky split open — a violent rift of searing light and shadow tearing the clouds asunder.
From the jagged opening, descending slowly with the grace of a tempest, stepped a lone man.
He was immense.
His skin gleamed like molten bronze, veins pulsing with sparks of fire that danced beneath the surface. His eyes burned with fierce intensity — a deep, smoldering amber that seemed to hold the fury of a thousand storms.
He was clad in armor forged from swirling storms and sharpened steel, the plates etched with ancient runes that flickered like lightning. His broad shoulders bore the weight of thunder itself, and in his hands, he held a massive hammer, its head crackling with electric energy, a weapon made to shape worlds.
His hair whipped wildly around his face, as if caught in an eternal gale, strands glowing with flickers of flame.
He moved with deliberate power, each step echoing like the pounding of a great smith's hammer on an anvil, a living embodiment of the storm's relentless might.
This was Ogou Feray — the god of iron, war, and the forge. The patron the tribe had summoned, now walking among them not as distant myth, but as a towering force of nature.
The moment Ogou's feet touched the scorched earth, the air trembled. The very ground seemed to pulse beneath his weight, as if recognizing the presence of a force both ancient and unyielding. A low rumble coursed through the valley, echoing like the distant beating of a colossal drum.
Around him, the gathered tribe remained frozen—part awe, part fear. Some warriors gripped their weapons tighter, their knuckles white, uncertain whether they were witnessing a blessing or a harbinger of war.
Maela stepped closer to Zaruko, her voice barely more than a breath. "Can we truly trust a god who walks like thunder and carries the storm in his eyes?"
Zaruko's gaze did not waver from Ogou. The fiery sigil on his chest burned hotter, pulsating in harmony with the god's presence. "He is our forge," Zaruko replied quietly. "The hammer that shapes us. If we survive, it will be because of him."
Ogou's eyes swept over the tribe, narrowing as if assessing each soul. Then, his gaze settled on Zaruko. A flash of recognition — or perhaps destiny — passed between them.
The god's voice rumbled like distant thunder, breaking the silence.
"I am Ogou Feray. The flame that tempers steel. The storm that shatters mountains. I am the forge and the hammer."
He lifted his mighty hammer, raising it toward the sky, where lightning danced eagerly around its head. Sparks leapt like fireflies, and the sound of clashing metal rang out as if the heavens themselves were being forged anew.
"Zaruko, bearer of my sigil, you have called me here," Ogou declared. "And I answer. Together, we shall carve a path through fire and blood."
The tribe exhaled collectively, the tension easing but replaced by a charged anticipation.
Maela's eyes searched Zaruko's face, seeing not just a warrior but a man about to step into a destiny larger than any they had known.
Around them, the beasts that had hidden now emerged cautiously, bowing their heads in reverence or perhaps wariness of the god's presence.
Ogou's hammer lowered, but the storm still crackled around him. "Prepare yourselves. The world beyond watches. Enemies will come to challenge the flame we kindle."
Zaruko gripped his spear, the glowing sigil searing beneath his skin. "We are ready."