The sun crept through the branches like golden blood dripping from wounded skies. The air was heavy with summer's breath—humid, alive, whispering change through the leaves. It had been five days since they escaped the ashes of their old world. Five days since Zion awoke.
Now, they stood at the edge of possibility.
"We're close," Kael said, crouched ahead. "The trail split, but I saw smoke—not fire. Just faint. Someone else is out here."
Zion gave a single nod. "Let's approach carefully. If they're from our tribe… they may not be in their right mind."
"Or they may not be ours at all," Thalia added, her voice sharp as ever.
They found him near the edge of a wide basin, by the roots of a fallen stone arch. The boy looked no older than fifteen—skin covered in ash, one leg tied with a bloodstained rag, hands wrapped around a spear that was far too big for him.
He didn't speak until they showed themselves.
"I'm not dying here," he said flatly.
Zion raised a hand. "Neither are we."
The boy's eyes narrowed. "Zion?"
Zion blinked. "Do I know you?"
"No," the boy muttered. "But I saw you speak once. Back when the elders thought you were too quiet to matter." He paused. "My name is Toma."
Thalia flanked Toma silently, checking his wounds. "Your leg's infected. You need water, rest."
"I've had both. What I need is a place to fight from." He turned toward the vast stretch of land behind him. "I found it."
And he had.
The basin opened into a natural cradle—shielded by high ridges on three sides, with a winding river at the base and dense groves ripe with fruit and game. Natural caves dotted the stone wall. The ground was rich with volcanic ash, soft but fertile.
Zion stared in silence.
"This… this is it."
Kael stepped forward, stunned. "The water flows into a ravine. Easy to defend. There's stone for tools. Shelter. Food."
"And wind," Thalia said, "from the east. That means dry air in the wet months."
Toma leaned against his spear, barely standing. "If we stay here, we can live."
Zion stepped past them, boots crunching dried grass. He knelt, pressed both hands into the soil. His fingers trembled—not from fear, but from purpose.
He whispered, not to the others, but to the gods.
"Papa Legba… I remember the stories. This is where we begin."
That night, they built no fire.
They marked the land with stone totems—simple for now, bound with rope and memory. Zion stood at the highest point, overlooking the basin. The sun dipped below the ridge, bleeding its last warmth into the earth. The wind was clean. The stars emerged.
He turned to the others.
"This is where we begin. But this time… we build not just to survive. We build to last."
Kael placed his hand on Zion's shoulder. "What do we call it?"
Zion closed his eyes. The old world echoed in his soul—his grandmother's voice, the smell of rum and smoke from her altar, the rhythm of drums and prayer.
Then, softly:
"Nouvo Kay."
Thalia's brow arched. "What does it mean?"
"New Home."