The land beyond the village felt wider than Jabari remembered, as though the earth itself had pulled away from him. Without the low hum of voices, without the familiar rhythm of footsteps and daily labor, the silence pressed in from every direction. The path beneath his feet was little more than a pale scar in the dirt, worn thin by travelers who no longer walked it. Each step carried him farther from the only home he had known, and the distance grew heavier with every breath.
He walked until the sun climbed high, then higher still. His legs burned, but he did not stop. Stopping felt too close to turning back.
By midday, the village was no longer visible. That realization struck him harder than he expected. He paused, hands resting on his knees, chest rising and falling unevenly. For a moment, he imagined he could still hear it—the echo of voices, the clang of tools, the soft arguments and laughter that once filled the air. But there was nothing. Only wind moving through tall grass, whispering over stones.
Musa's face rose in his mind.
He saw the old man standing at the boundary stones, his posture straight despite the years weighing on him. Musa's grip on his staff had been tight, knuckles pale, and Jabari remembered the faint tremor in his hand as he had rested it against the wood. Musa had tried to hide it, as he always did, but Jabari had seen it. Strength held together by will alone.
The memory slowed Jabari's steps.
He remembered Kioni as well, standing before the village with the same calm certainty he always carried. His voice had been steady as he spoke of safety and order, but once—only once—it had caught for the briefest moment. A flicker of hesitation, so small most would have missed it. Jabari had not. He wondered now whether Kioni remembered it himself.
The sun began to dip, and the air cooled quickly. Jabari gathered what dry branches he could find and built a small fire in the shelter of a shallow hollow. The flames sputtered at first, then caught, casting uneven light across the ground. He sat close, knees drawn in, watching the fire bend and crack as the wind shifted.
Hunger gnawed at him, dull but persistent. He ate sparingly, aware that each bite brought him closer to emptiness. The village had never truly lacked food. Even in hard seasons, there had always been enough when people shared. Out here, survival felt personal in a way it never had before.
When night fully settled, the cold came with it. It slipped beneath his clothes and wrapped itself around his ribs. Jabari pulled his cloak tighter and stared into the fire, letting the warmth brush his face. His thoughts drifted despite his efforts to anchor them.
He did not curse the village for sending him away. He did not curse Kioni for speaking the words, nor did he curse the people for accepting them. He understood their fear. He understood their exhaustion. That understanding hurt more than anger ever could.
Sleep came in fragments. When it came at all, it brought dreams.
He dreamed of the village as it had once been, paths open and busy, children running between homes, voices overlapping in a way that felt alive. Then the ground beneath it began to split. Thin cracks spread outward, slow and deliberate, dividing one home from the next. Jabari stood helpless as the gaps widened. At the centre of it all stood Kioni, unmoving, his face calm as people gathered around him. They did not look joyful. They looked relieved.
Jabari woke before dawn, heart racing, breath shallow. The fire had burned down to embers, and the air was bitterly cold. He sat up slowly, pressing a hand to his chest until the pounding eased. The dream lingered, sharp and insistent, refusing to fade.
Morning brought no comfort. The light was pale, the sky washed thin of color. Jabari continued walking, his steps slower now, weighed down by fatigue and reflection. Water was harder to find than he expected. Each dry streambed he crossed chipped away at his confidence. He had imagined exile would bring clarity, perhaps even peace.
Instead, it brought silence.
He prayed less with words as the days passed. Words felt too small out here, too easily lost in the open air. Instead, he listened. To the wind sliding through grass. To the sound of his own footsteps. To the steady rhythm of his breathing when panic threatened to rise.
Faith no longer felt like something spoken. It felt like something endured.
On the fourth day, he came upon the remains of an old shelter near a dried streambed. Stone and wood lay scattered, half-swallowed by time, but enough remained to offer shade. Jabari lowered himself against a sun-warmed rock, closing his eyes. The heat seeped into his back, easing the ache in his muscles.
That was when he noticed the absence.
The faint pressure he had grown used to—the sense of being watched, weighed, measured—was weaker here. Not gone entirely, but distant, like a sound carried away on the wind. The shadow did not cling to him as it had within the village.
The realization settled slowly, unsettling in its own way.
The darkness thrived where people gathered without trust, where order replaced compassion. Alone, stripped of influence and connection, Jabari was less useful to it.
The thought did not comfort him. It burdened him.
If the shadow did not need him, then the village did. And he was no longer there.
Jabari opened his eyes and stared at the empty sky above him. He did not know where the road would lead. He did not know when—or if—he would return. What he did know was that faith had followed him into exile, quieter now, heavier, and far less forgiving.
And for the first time, he understood that this road was not punishment.
It was preparation.
The night after Jabari left the shelter, the land pressed closer. Wind moved through the tall grass in restless waves, carrying the distant cry of something hunting. Jabari kept his fire small and his thoughts quieter still. Hunger sharpened his senses, and fatigue weighed his limbs, but something steadier had taken root beneath it all. He no longer felt watched. The silence was not empty. It was expectant.
He remembered Musa's words then, spoken long before exile had ever been imagined, about faith being less like a shield and more like a road. A road did not protect you from the journey, Musa had said. It only showed you where to walk. Jabari held onto that thought as sleep finally claimed him, thin and dreamless.
Far behind him, the village woke to another day of order.
Kioni's patrols moved at first light, their steps measured, their presence reassuring. The sickness lingered, stubborn but controlled, and people spoke in quieter voices now, careful not to draw attention. The healer worked within the limits set for her, and no one argued when access was denied. Stability had become precious. Questioning it felt dangerous.
In the square, Musa watched from the shade, his hand trembling faintly as he leaned on his staff. He noticed the way people avoided certain paths, the way children were firmly guided away from places they once played. No one spoke Jabari's name aloud anymore. Silence had taken its place, neat and contained.
Kioni addressed the village near midday. His voice carried clearly, steady and composed as he spoke of progress and patience. Once, as he paused to take a breath, his gaze drifted toward the road that led out of the settlement. For a fraction of a moment, something unreadable crossed his face. Then it was gone, replaced by resolve.
Order held.
But it was brittle.
That evening, as the sun lowered, a man collapsed near the granary. Panic flared, quick and sharp, before the guards intervened. The sickness had not worsened, but fear had. People obeyed instructions, retreated to their homes, and barred their doors. No prayers were spoken aloud. Faith had become something private again, hidden away like a fragile thing.
Musa watched the square empty and felt the absence settle heavily in his chest.
Beyond the village, Jabari woke before dawn and continued walking. His body protested, but his mind was clearer now than it had been since the stone first called to him. The road was unforgiving, yet honest. It offered no illusions of safety, no promises of control.
By the time he reached the rise overlooking the valley, the sun had climbed, warming his back. Jabari stopped there, not to rest, but to look. He did not know what lay ahead, only that turning back now would mean returning as someone seeking permission.
He would not do that.
He knelt in the dust, bowed his head, and for the first time since exile, prayed with words again. They were few and unadorned. Not for protection. Not for answers. Only for the strength to return when the time came—not as a symbol, not as a threat, but as a witness.
When he stood, the road seemed less empty.
The shadow remained patient, working where Jabari was not. But patience could be answered, and absence would not last forever. Faith, shaped in silence and hardship, was learning how to walk back into fear without becoming it.
And somewhere between the village that had chosen order and the man who had chosen the road, the future waited—unsettled, uncertain, and already in motion.