The Verdant Maw released Kairo at midday with a final embrace, its emerald veins dimming as if reluctant to let go. Vines brushed his shoulders one last time—while sprites scampered alongside his path, their amber eyes glistening with tiny tears.
Elder Raha walked beside him to the forest's fringe, wiry frame steady, gold-flecked eyes reflecting the journey's weight. "Carry our roots, Mwana wa Nuru," he murmured, pressing a scarred vine-band into Kairo's palm. "They will hold when thunder breaks."Elder Kimuri waited at the boundary, towering form framed by arching trees, braids blooming defiant white flowers.
His deep laugh rolled farewell: "Storm the peaks, warrior! The Maw watches." He clasped Kairo's shoulders—grip-thunder-grip—then turned, chants rising to shield the borders.
Kairo stepped beyond, twelve-year-old frame hardened by thorns and chant, emerald-gold veins pulsing steady beneath bronze skin. The transition struck like a blade: forest hush yielding to Kanzu Highlands, where wind howled ceaseless through jagged peaks—whoosh-WHIRL-whoosh.
Air turned crisp and electric, tasting of ozone and storm-brewed rain, gray clouds boiling overhead like restless spirits. Thunder cracked distant yet hungry and the earth rose in terraced cliffs of black basalt, etched with lightning-runes that sparked faintly—spark-pulse-spark. Hardy scrub clung to ledges, leaves trembling with latent charge, while mountain goats with spiraled horns leaped impossible heights.
No soft loam here—Kairo's boots crunched on sharp gravel—crunch-step-crunch—each breath syncing to the wind's wild rhythm. The scarred vine-band warmed at his wrist, anchoring Maw's harmony against the storm's pull.
Hours climbed into afternoon, peaks sharpening like obsidian spears piercing clouds. Kairo reached Zuberi Aerie, the highland stronghold carved into a thunderhead-shaped cliff, its walls woven from storm-forged stone that hummed with static.
Torches of eternal lightning flickered in alcoves and warriors patrolled ramparts, their copper braids sparking with every step. Drums echoed from cavernous halls—THUD-echo-THUD—blending with wind's howl into a warrior's heartbeat. Eyes turned as Kairo approached—wary, appraising—whispers rippling: "Mwana wa Nuru... forest-soft?"
At the aerie's heart, beneath a colossal Thunder Monolith—crystal veined with captured lightning that arced endlessly—stood Stormfather Bahati. Leader of the Zuberi Tribe, he was a mountain forged flesh: broad-shouldered colossus with skin like polished obsidian, etched with storm-runes that glowed electric blue. His copper braids cascaded to his waist, woven with tiny thunder-stones that sparked in rhythm and his eyes burned amber storms, fierce yet knowing.
Born during the Great Tempest that birthed Kanzu's peaks, Bahati had tamed his first lightning at ten, channeling bolts to defend against dune raiders. Where Kimuri commanded earth, Bahati was the storm—unyielding, yet guiding young warriors with rumbling wisdom. "The boy from green shadows," he boomed, voice like rolling thunder over peaks. He extended a massive hand, palm crackling faintly. "Welcome to thunder's forge, Kairo. Show me your spark."
Kairo clasped it—electric warmth surging through his veins, emerald-gold flaring blue for a heartbeat. "Stormfather," he bowed, vine-band steadying him. "The Maw sends its rhythm." Bahati laughed, deep and sky-shaking. "Good. Roots alone bend in wind. Here, we strike." He led Kairo to the monolith's base, warriors gathering—braids sparking approval. "Trials begin at dusk. But first—rest. Thunder tests the ready."
As sun dipped, painting peaks blood-orange. Bahati shared storm-mead by lightning-fires. "Your Chant scars reached us," he rumbled, eyes storming. "Silence creeps. But the Sunfire Council gathers tomorrow at Heartstone—Jabari calls all leaders. Unity against shadow." Kairo nodded, silver whisper flickering faint in his veins.
From afar, a familiar spark approached: Tano, fierce Zuberi boy with copper braids and thunder-lit eyes, his laugh cutting wind—HA-spark-HA. "Forest-boy! Ready to learn real rhythm?" Kairo grinned, roots meeting storm.
Night fell, aerie alive with drum-calls. Kairo stood rampart's edge, wind whipping his tunic. Below, dunes shimmered distant, thrums mocking. Above, stars pierced clouds like arrows. Bahati's hand fell on his shoulder: "Sleep, warrior. Dawn Accord binds tribes. But dusk... your trials crack the sky."
Thunder growled closer. Kairo whispered to the storm: "I am ready." Vine-band warmed. But beneath peaks, the "heh-heh" laughed—patient, rising. And at Heartstone, fates would thread.