The sky over Kan Ogou was bruised with clouds, their undersides glowing faintly red with the forge's restless fire. Smoke drifted from its chimney like a slow exhale, and beneath it, the earth groaned — quiet, subtle, but constant.
Zaruko stood at the edge of the wide-open plaza, his eyes narrowed at the massive black-stone forge that had long since become the heart of the village. Maela stood beside him, silent, carrying a clay jar of red-stained roots. An offering.
They stepped forward together, their boots crunching over the frost-hardened soil. The cold was still present, biting and sharp, but it felt… different today. As if the land itself were preparing for something.
When they reached the stone basin where offerings were laid, Maela gently poured the red roots inside, the color staining the grooves like veins on a palm. She bowed her head slightly — not in worship, but in respect.
"It's changing," she whispered. "The land. The air. Even the forge feels like it's breathing."
Zaruko nodded. He had felt it too.
Not long ago, he would have dismissed such sensations — but now, after everything they had survived, he'd learned to listen to what couldn't be seen. The gods had walked among them. Spirits had risen. A single heartbeat, divine and ancient, pulsed beneath their feet.
As the village stirred behind them, villagers gathered with cautious reverence. Elders brought small tokens — feathers, carved bones, bundles of dried herbs — and children huddled close to their mothers, wide-eyed and silent.
An old hunter named Malin approached the forge and spoke for the first time in days.
"In my youth, I climbed the ridges and thought I knew this land," he said aloud, voice gravelly with age. "But this fire, this mountain… it was always waiting. It waited for him," he gestured at Zaruko, "and it's still waiting. Something deeper."
A murmur rippled through the crowd.
Zaruko didn't answer. Instead, his thoughts wandered — not forward, but back. Back to the world he'd once known.
Back to Earth.
Back to a simple binder he had buried months ago beneath his own hut. It contained hand-sketched diagrams and notes — blueprints of survival. He'd written them during a feverish night, driven by the urge to preserve what he could remember: water filtration systems, underground insulation models, and agricultural rotation for harsh environments.
He had always kept it secret, unsure if the time was right. But now, with winter loosening its grip and something stirring beneath the forge, that knowledge could no longer stay hidden.
That night, by a fire near the outskirts of the village, Zaruko unrolled the scrolls to a few of his most trusted: Jinba, Kalma, and Maela. He laid the parchment out with care and explained his thoughts — not as magic or prophecy, but as logic and planning.
"What if we redirect the runoff water through a slow sand filter made with clay and ash?" he said, pointing. "It purifies itself. And the trenches here—if insulated properly—can keep root vegetables alive through even worse winters."
Jinba scratched his beard, skeptical, but not dismissive. Kalma leaned closer, nodding slowly.
"It doesn't feel like tribal knowledge," she said. "But it feels… right."
Maela smiled faintly. "Knowledge doesn't care where it's born. If it protects our people, it belongs here."
Zaruko looked at her, warmth filling the chill space between them. "You always know how to say what I can't."
"I just remind you of who you already are," she replied softly.
Later that evening, as the stars peeked through the soot-colored sky, they sat together in silence. Zaruko reached for Maela's hand, and she didn't pull away. Her fingers were calloused, strong, and warm against his.
"You ever wonder," he said, "what this place will look like in ten winters?"
Maela didn't answer immediately. Her gaze was steady, fixed on the forge. "I think it'll still burn. As long as someone protects it. As long as someone remembers what was sacrificed to light it."
Behind them, the forge hummed — not like a machine, but like something alive. From its core, a faint crimson glow pulsed, almost like a heartbeat. In its shadow, the villagers whispered to one another, drawing symbols in the snow, telling stories that blended truth and myth.
And beneath the forge, unknown to all but the gods, something stirred.
Something ancient.
Something waiting.
That night, while the village returned to quiet routines and soft laughter by their hearths, Zaruko stood atop the ridge above the forge, the wind snapping at his cloak. Maela joined him not long after, arms crossed against the chill, her silhouette dark against the stars.
"Why do you always find the highest ground?" she asked, her voice teasing but quiet.
He smiled. "I like to see everything. Or maybe I just like feeling small next to the sky."
She stepped beside him, her shoulder brushing his. "You don't seem small to us."
"Then maybe you're all looking up at the wrong person."
A long silence passed between them, not uncomfortable — just full. Full of unspoken questions and slow-building truths.
"I never asked where you came from," Maela finally said. "Not really."
Zaruko didn't answer at first. His gaze stayed fixed on the forge below. "From a place where we forgot the gods but built things tall enough to replace them. A place where fire was hidden in wires, not reverence."
She looked at him, not shocked — just studying.
"And you brought some of that fire here," she said.
"I brought what I could remember," Zaruko said softly. "And I'm trying to forget the rest."
Maela took his hand again, fingers entwining. "Then build something worth remembering here."
Below, the forge gave a low rumble — a single tremor that passed through the ground like a warning.
Maela froze. "Did you feel that?"
"Yes," Zaruko whispered. His eyes locked on the glowing fissure beneath the forge's foundation — a thin, searing line of magma that hadn't been there before. Not visible to most. But to him… it looked like a scar splitting the world open.
Inside the forge, the fire pulsed once — and for a brief moment, sigils flickered across the forge walls. Not of Ogou. Not of any Lwa he knew.
Older. Unnamed. Watching.
Zaruko's grip on Maela's hand tightened.
"We'll need more than walls and warmth for what's coming," he said.
Maela nodded. "Then we better start building."
As the wind howled above them, and the forge whispered below, the village slept unaware — balanced delicately on the skin of something vast, breathing, and ancient.
Something beneath.