The hermit's hut was already fading into memory, swallowed by the green of the jungle. Ahayue trudged forward, his staff biting into the soft soil with every weary step. On his chest hung a crude amulet—nothing more than a bone carved with spiraling marks and tied with sinew—but the old man's words had given it weight beyond measure.
"The river will test you, boy," the hermit had whispered, eyes like coals sunk into his cragged face. "And beyond the river, the mountains wait. There, earth kisses sky, and curses find their tongue."
Ahayue had wanted to ask more, but the hermit had simply closed his eyes and returned to his silent trance. So he left, clutching the token, trying to convince himself that it meant something—that his suffering wasn't endless wandering, but a path drawn by threads older than he could understand.
The jungle thinned as he pressed north. The air, once heavy and damp, grew sharper, carrying a chill that slid into his bones. He shivered beneath his ragged tunic. Trees no longer loomed over him in endless towers; instead, the canopy broke apart, showing patches of pale sky and the jagged teeth of distant cliffs.
For the first time since leaving his tribe, Ahayue saw the world open.
He stopped on a rise where the ground had sloped upward without him realizing. Before him stretched a valley of stone and tangled roots, split by a pale ribbon of river. And beyond that river—gray mountains loomed, their peaks lost in shifting veils of mist. They were vast, older than memory, their flanks scarred by shadows. Ahayue's breath caught.
"This… is where I go." His voice trembled, not from fear but from something greater—like awe mixed with dread.
Days on the Rocks
The earth was crueler here. Gone were the fruiting vines and fat insects of the jungle. Instead, Ahayue picked at dry shrubs, bitter herbs, and once even gnawed at bark when hunger tore at him too fiercely. His legs burned as he climbed uneven slopes, each step threatening to twist an ankle or scrape him bloody against jagged stones.
Nights grew cold. He wrapped himself in leaves at first, then in the shredded hide of a boar he had killed by accident when it stumbled into a pit he dug for snakes. Its death had not been glorious; it had squealed and thrashed, and he had cried as he ended its misery with a stone. Yet when he draped its skin around his shoulders, he felt a grim sort of triumph.
Still, exhaustion gnawed at him. His cursed body ached with each breath, the crooked bend of his spine sharper now that the winds pulled at him constantly. But somewhere deep, a new resilience stirred. The hermit had called him "marked." Perhaps that mark made him endure beyond what a frail boy should.
The Forgotten Stones
On the fourth day since leaving the hermit, Ahayue stumbled into a hollow between two cliffs. What he found there made him forget his hunger.
The hollow was scattered with ruins—broken pillars half-sunk in moss, stones cut too straight to be nature's work, lying cracked and scattered like the bones of a fallen beast.
He approached cautiously, fingers tracing spirals and lines etched into the nearest slab. Time had worn them faint, but the patterns reminded him of the amulet on his chest. Spirals folding into spirals, each line weaving into another.
"Curses find their tongue…" the hermit had said.
As he touched the stone, the world seemed to shift. A hush fell over the air. For an instant, Ahayue swore he heard whispers—echoes of voices speaking in a language older than his tribe's chants. He stumbled back, heart hammering, but nothing stirred. Only the wind sighed through the hollow.
That night, he slept among the ruins. Dreams came: visions of tall figures draped in skins, painting their bodies with ash and blood, chanting before a great river. And always, behind them, a shadow with too many limbs hovered, its form shifting between beast and storm.
He woke shivering, the amulet warm against his chest.
The River's Challenge
By the sixth day, Ahayue reached the river.
It was not the gentle stream he had seen from the ridge. Up close, it roared like a living thing. White water frothed over jagged rocks, currents twisted with violent hunger, and the spray chilled his skin the moment he stepped near.
His heart sank. He had barely survived the jungle, barely endured the climb, and now this torrent blocked his path. The hermit's words echoed: "The river will test you."
He followed the bank for hours, searching for a ford, but each stretch was the same—rapids, whirlpools, and jagged stone teeth. His cursed body throbbed with pain, his breath came ragged, and despair swelled inside him.
"Why?" His voice cracked as he shouted at the rushing water. "Why must the world spit me out at every step? I am broken already! Is that not enough?"
The river answered with its endless roar.
He considered turning back. He even imagined lying down and letting the cold take him, ending the endless struggle. But then his hand brushed the amulet. It pulsed faintly with warmth, as if alive.
"No…" he whispered. "Not yet."
So he tied vines together, crude and weak, but enough for a chance. He stripped, clutching his staff in one hand and the amulet between his teeth. And then—he leapt into the current.
The river seized him like a beast. Water smashed into his face, spinning him, pulling him under. He kicked, clawed, gasped, but the torrent dragged him toward a jagged rock. At the last instant, something flared inside him—not strength of muscle, but something deeper. His arms struck the water in rhythm, pulling him sideways, guiding him past the stone.
The current battered him again, hurling him into a whirlpool. Darkness closed in as water filled his lungs. But the amulet burned hot against his skin, and he felt a whisper—like the hermit's voice, or the voices from the ruins: "Breathe, marked one. Not yet."
He fought. Somehow, impossibly, his head broke the surface. He coughed, retched, but kept moving. Stroke by stroke, he clawed through the fury until, at last, the current flung him onto the far bank.
He lay there for hours, gasping, coughing up river water, his body shaking from exhaustion. But he was alive.
Distant Peaks
When dawn broke, Ahayue dragged himself to a rise.
Before him, the mountains loomed larger than ever. Their ridges caught the first fire of the sun, glowing gold through the morning mist. Valleys yawned between them, filled with shadows and promises of dangers he could not name. Yet his chest swelled. For the first time, he felt not just cursed—but chosen.
His body still ached, his curse still chained him, but he had crossed. The jungle was behind him. The ruins whispered of an older story he had yet to understand. And now the mountains waited—vast, cold, and unforgiving.
Ahayue gripped his staff, the amulet warm against his skin.
"Let the mountains test me," he said hoarsely. "I will not turn back."
And with that, he stepped forward, leaving the river's roar behind, walking toward peaks where earth met sky.