The Weight of Fire
The days after the battle passed like smoke—fading at the edges, difficult to hold onto.
The ridge was stained. The blood of enemies and kin alike had soaked the stone, and no amount of rain could wash away what had happened. Not entirely.
The tribe had won, but they had not emerged unscathed. Nine were dead. Twelve more were wounded, and among them were hunters they couldn't afford to lose.
But it wasn't just the loss that haunted them.
It was what they had seen.
Ogou Feray's arrival had left no trace—no body, no thunder, no footprint to press into the dirt and say "this happened." And yet the memory of it burned behind their eyes. The scent of scorched iron still lingered in their lungs.
Some whispered reverently.
Others whispered in fear.
Zaruko sat alone at the edge of the ridge, legs crossed, the wind tugging at the edges of his worn trousers. His sigil no longer burned, but it hummed gently beneath his skin, alive. Watching. Waiting.
He tried to make sense of it all.
Ogou's voice still echoed in his mind:
"You called. I answered. Now, I am yours."
But Zaruko hadn't called him—had he?
He clenched his fist, feeling the warmth rise slightly.
He had crossed into this world with nothing. No weapon. No command. No language for its gods or laws. But now… he had changed something fundamental in its balance. He had introduced something foreign. Not just Ogou—but the very idea of a foreign god. And gods, like fire, spread.
Behind him, footsteps approached.
Maela.
"You need to speak to them," she said gently. "They're beginning to divide."
Zaruko looked up. "Over me?"
She nodded.
"They saw what happened. And some believe you're chosen. Others think you've cursed us."
"Cursed?" he echoed.
Maela hesitated. "There are those who believe we were meant to die on this mountain. That surviving—by invoking something not of this world—broke the balance."
Zaruko stood slowly. "So they would rather be dead?"
"They would rather understand."
Later that night, a council was called.
The fires burned low, casting flickering light across the faces of the surviving tribe members. They sat in a loose circle, guarded but attentive.
Tavin stood first, leaning heavily on his staff. His voice, though old, still held weight.
"We have known war," he said. "We have known gods. But never… have we seen this."
He turned to Zaruko, not accusing, but not reverent either.
"You carry something that does not belong to this world. That much is clear."
Zaruko didn't flinch. "And yet it was that thing that saved your lives."
A younger hunter—Koro—spoke next. "And what else will it bring? You speak of saving us. But what if that fire brings others like it? What if other powers now come—because of him?"
A ripple of unease moved through the circle.
Zaruko stepped forward, voice calm but unwavering.
"Yes. You're right. I brought something with me. Something that isn't from here. And I didn't choose it."
He looked at his marked arm.
"But I didn't run from it either."
He raised his eyes to the tribe.
"You want to know what I am? I'm a man who chose to stand and fight beside you. I bled for this tribe before I even knew your names. You say I brought fire—but it wasn't just fire. It was protection. It was a promise that no one else in this world made to you."
Silence.
Then Maela stood.
"This world is changing," she said. "With or without Zaruko. I'd rather stand beside the one who made it blink."
Tavin's gaze lingered on Zaruko for a long time.
Then he gave a single nod.
The matter was closed.
That night, Zaruko couldn't sleep.
He sat beside the fire alone, staring at the sigil. It pulsed gently, almost like it was breathing. But the warmth it gave off wasn't heat now. It was presence.
Like something was watching.
He closed his eyes.
And when he opened them, he was no longer in the ridge camp.
The dream came again—but clearer.
He stood in a vast battlefield that stretched beyond the sky. The ground was covered in armor—not bodies, not bones—just empty armor, as if a thousand warriors had vanished mid-fight. Blades rusted into the earth. Banners of unknown empires snapped in a wind that carried no sound.
And at the center of it all stood Ogou.
He was not larger than before. Not louder. But more present. As if every movement made the world tilt slightly.
"Why me?" Zaruko asked.
Ogou didn't answer immediately. He turned instead, pointing to the empty armor.
"Because this is what comes when power is left unclaimed. When strength is unled."
He stepped closer, gaze sharp. "You carry my echo. You were marked not because of fate—but because of blood. You are kin to those who fought for freedom. You are the son of sacrifice."
Zaruko's throat tightened.
Ogou leaned closer.
"You want to lead? Then burn the path forward. Or watch this world consume itself."
The battlefield dissolved into smoke.
He awoke gasping.
The fire was dying, the coals hissing faintly.
But the mark on his arm had changed again.
Another line. Another branch. A second flare reaching up the bicep.
A new sign.
A new stage.
Ogou wasn't just present.
He was anchored now.
Far from the mountain, in places even the oldest tribes feared to name, eyes opened.
In the obsidian marshes of the south, a god of rot stirred in his moss-drenched pit.
In the broken plateau of the north, an ancient voice whispered through skeletal ruins.
And in a temple long forgotten beneath the red sands, a blind priest's eyes bled with salt as he muttered, "He has come… the one with fire not of this world."
The next morning, when the tribe gathered to resume their climb, the sky was clear. The storm had passed without ever breaking, as if it, too, had waited to witness what would come next.
Zaruko stood ahead of them all, the mark on his arm hidden beneath cloth, but its weight undeniable.
They didn't ask questions.
They followed.
And though none of them could name what they were becoming, they all felt it in the wind, in the firewood, in their breath:
Change had come.
And it wore the shape of a man marked by war.