The cold ruled Ayeshe like a tyrant with no heart. Wind howled across the plains, stripping bark from trees and breath from lungs. Snow fell not in soft flurries, but in blades of white that cut at skin and spirit alike. Yet in the heart of Kan Ogou, where fire still burned beneath stone, warriors gathered—not for warmth, but for purpose.
The forge stood open, the great archway of black stone rimmed in frost, yet never touched by it. The pool of red rum beside it steamed faintly, a sign of power resisting the elements. Ogou had said nothing since the decree. There were no chants or ceremonies. Just the quiet tension of a trial accepted.
Each warrior now faced a path: to brave the wild, to hunt a beast, to earn a weapon made by the god of fire and war himself.
Zaruko stood at the edge of the village, overlooking the training grounds. The warriors were preparing—stretching limbs, checking leathers and bindings, eating dried meats in silence. He could see their breath rising into the cold morning air like smoke from a thousand tiny fires. He remembered mornings like this in the other world, before raids and missions—only this time, the stakes were far older.
Maela approached from behind, her fur-lined cloak trailing snow. "You said this would make them stronger."
Zaruko didn't turn. "It will. If they survive."
"And those who don't?"
"They wait. They grow. They earn it next winter."
She was quiet for a while, then stepped beside him. "Some may not return."
Zaruko's jaw tightened. "That's the nature of strength. You don't gift it. You forge it."
Below, the warriors began moving toward the gates. Each was given a small iron token, marked with a simple flame—a sign they had been chosen. The younger ones clutched theirs with trembling hands. The veterans, like Jomu and Talek, accepted theirs with stoic nods.
Before they could leave, one by one, each warrior approached the forge. They bowed—not out of ritual, but respect. Then, in full silence, they turned and walked into the wild.
Snow swallowed sound. Even the wind, which had howled with fury only an hour ago, seemed to hold its breath as the warriors of Kan Ogou entered the wilderness one by one. There was no mass exodus, no ritual chant to guide them—only the silence of determination, and the pull of the promise that the god of the forge would make a weapon worthy of their soul.
Jomu, older than most, yet with eyes sharpened by decades of watching the wilds, moved quickly into the northern woodlands. His breath fogged before him, but he paid it no mind. A spear of bone and blackened wood rested in his hand—primitive, yes, but balanced. It would have to serve until he earned what Ogou offered.
In the east, Talek tracked a beast he had only heard of in the old stories—one whose breath could melt snow and whose hide was said to resist even obsidian blades. He moved slow, cautious. The snow here was deeper, and the cold bit through to the marrow. But in his heart burned a flame that whispered: I am not prey.
In the village, Maela knelt beside the forge. The heat radiating from the stone and magma was both comforting and unsettling. It pulsed with an unnatural rhythm, like a great heart beneath the mountain. She whispered—not a prayer, but a hope.
"Keep them safe, even if they fail."
Hours passed. Then a day. Then two.
On the third day, the gates opened to the sound of heavy dragging footsteps. A warrior returned, half-frozen, dragging the body of a beast behind him. It was no towering monster, but it was real. Fresh blood. A kill made in solitude.
He staggered toward the forge. The villagers watched in silence as he collapsed to his knees, lifted a shaking hand, and pressed a single drop of blood onto the beast's hide. Then, with a grunt of pain, he heaved the body into the rum pool beside the forge.
The blood hissed. The liquid burned crimson bright. Somewhere in the back of the forge, a spark flared.
Ogou had accepted.
That night, more came. Some alone, dragging beasts twice their size. Others in pairs—those who had helped each other, even at the cost of failing the trial. They did not drop blood. They did not speak. They stood at the edges of the square and watched as others succeeded.
Zaruko stood at the center of it all, unmoving. His eyes tracked each success and each failure, marking the patterns of potential. These were not merely warriors. These were the beginnings of his military command.
On the fourth day, only three warriors remained unreturned.
By the sixth, only one.
And on the seventh, the snow began to fall again—heavy, relentless, almost spiteful. The last warrior staggered through it, broken, bleeding, but alive. No beast in hand. Only a claw clutched in his palm.
He knelt at the forge, breathing hard.
"I failed," he said.
Zaruko approached. "You lived. That means next winter, you'll try again."
"But I…"
Zaruko held up a hand. "No one speaks of failure as shame. Only delay."
From inside the forge, the fire pulsed. Ogou had heard. But there was no judgment. Only the sound of metal striking metal in the deep.
The next morning, those whose offerings had been accepted returned to the forge. They gathered around the pool, where Ogou's fire glowed like the sun trapped beneath the world. Without a word, the rum pool bubbled, and one by one, blades rose from the magma.
No two were the same.
Some curved like flame. Others jagged like the teeth of beasts. Some shimmered with red light, others with blue or gold. Each warrior stepped forward to take their weapon, and when they did, the sigil of Ogou shimmered faintly on their chest, shoulder, or back—appearing not as a brand, but as a mark of earned power.
Maela stood beside Zaruko, eyes wide.
"They look… changed," she whispered.
"They are," he said. "And so is Kan Ogou."
A tribe no longer. Not just a people surviving winter.
A force.
An army.
And somewhere deep in the forge, Ogou smiled.
The fire had only begun to spread.