The black crystal formations provided less comfort than Zuberi had hoped. Though solid, shielding him from the persistent gaze of the strange twin suns, the structures hummed with a low, resonant energy that vibrated through the ground, an unsettling lullaby that fractured his sleep. In his dreams, the humming transformed into whispers, voices speaking in tales beyond comprehension, while swirling colors painted impossible patterns behind his eyelids. Sometimes he tasted phantom saltwater, and the strange markings on his arms seemed to pulse in rhythm with the crystals' song. He spent the first full day cycle in this dubious shelter securing necessities, circling the crystalline cluster, noting its stark rise from the glittering black sand—a lone landmark in a vast, exposed expanse. Each time he passed certain faces of the crystal, the humming intensified, as if responding to his presence, to the alien marks branded into his flesh.
Near the crystal formation's safety, close enough that he could dash there and back without fear, Zuberi found a pool of brackish, barely drinkable, metallic-tasting water. Next, he moved his focus to fire. Earlier, he'd spotted a dead, dry log near the slope he'd tumbled down upon arrival. Zuberi waited until the distant silverbacks were busy hunting moon-fur rabbits, then dashed across the sand, collected as much wood as he could carry, and returned to the crystals, strange haven that kept the silverbacks at bay.
Back in the humming shelter, he carefully unwrapped the flint and steel stored in a small pouch around his neck. Layers of cured skin, beeswax, and buffalo fat protected its contents, a meticulous precaution against home's torrential rains, clearly ineffective against oceanic submersion.
He gathered dry twigs, brow furrowing. Should he offer a prayer? Towards the twin suns? Twice the suns, twice the miracles… or twice the desolation. The thought soured in his mouth. Or… to her god? Bile rose, hot and bitter, at the mere idea. Cursing under his breath, frustrated by his thoughts and the damp chill clinging to the flint despite its protection, he struck harder than intended.
A sharp tink echoed as a tiny fragment chipped off the flint, ricocheting off the nearest crystal face. The crystalline hum's pitch spiked for a moment, and strange geometric patterns flickered across its surface like ripples on water. He felt an odd sensation as he struck—like inhaling pure, arid desert air on a scorching day, while the markings on his arms tingled with an almost electric energy. Looking down, he saw the twigs weren't just sparking; they were smoking, catching fire far more readily than they should. The flame that appeared had an unusual bluish tinge at its core, dancing in ways that defied the still air. With careful tending, he coaxed the flame into a familiar, strong orange with a white core.
Only after securing the fire did Zuberi turn to the local flora, beginning risky experiments. A patch of vibrant orange fungi nestled near the base of a crystal resulted in violent stomach cramps, leaving him weak and trembling, never to forget this world's alien hostility.
By the cycle's end, profound weariness settled over him—deeper than physical exertion alone. He blamed the foul water and poisonous fungus.
The first cycle, hard to call them days with no idea of their duration, blended into the next, the comforting flame nearby the only difference from the cycle before. The fire's flickering light kept the deepest shadows at bay, and Zuberi had yet to meet a creature foolish enough to ignore the flame. If one existed, it would not have survived long in this harsh world.
Emboldened, he gathered large, spiral-shelled snails near the dirty pool. Their sluggish movements made them easy prey. He cooked them directly in the embers, hoping for a readily available food source. The result proved disastrous.
The meat was tough, rubbery, and left a tart aftertaste that refused to recede. When he bit through his lip and noticed only after tasting the tang of blood, Zuberi froze, third spoon never making it to his mouth. Although he had consumed a small amount, the snails caused more severe hallucinations than the azure berries, which he had initially identified as unsafe. Colors bled into impossible shapes; a voice, insidious and low, whispered in his mind. It suggested he use the black crystals' sharp tips. One thrust and all would end. Peace at last. Reunion with Amara, Father, his people. He could finally atone. When he didn't acquiesce, the voice demanded, then cajoled—on and on until the nightmare ended.
When the hallucinations subsided, leaving him trembling and nauseated, he swore off the foul-tasting snails. Competing with silverbacks for moon-fur rabbits was preferable to such madness.
However, the snail shells proved useful. After cooking what almost became his last meal, Zuberi noticed the shells remained unchanged. No discoloration or flaking. He tapped a shell against a crystal and then two shells together, hearing the same ding. The shells were metal or crystal. Zuberi chose the metal theory because it explained the water taste. Placing two shells one atop and facing the other, he filled the bottom one with the rank water and placed it in the center of the smoldering coals, angling the top shell to catch and collect the steam. Droplet by droplet, clean water accumulated.
The work was slow and tedious but yielded water free of metallic tang and, hopefully, sickness. Fatigue persisted and the snails weakening him didn't help. The silverbacks were relentless; two moved along the basin's perimeter, violet eyes focused unnervingly on the crystal outcrop. Waiting.
The crystals' constant buzzing grated his senses, their song growing more insistent with each passing moment. It felt draining, as if they were somehow feeding on his presence, drawing something from him that he couldn't name. Sometimes, in moments of exhaustion, he thought he saw faint lines of force connecting the crystals to his marked skin, like invisible threads pulling at his very essence.
On the third cycle, Zuberi prepared to leave. He woke sluggish, with heavy limbs, the faint glowing lines on his arms dimmer than before. He hunted two more moon-fur rabbits and the effort alone exhausted him.
While the meat cooked, he crudely prepared the skins, briefly boiling them in the little water he could spare before shaping makeshift water skins. They wouldn't last long, treated so amateurishly, but they would suffice.
He filled one with precious, clean water. The other he filled with a mixture of water and crushed charcoal chunks from his fire. However little he wanted to eat unknown fruits or animals, he was under no illusion his provisions would last or how common the moon-fur rabbits or the few edible plants he'd found were.
He packed the cooked meat apart from the raw, wrapping each in layers of the large leaves that floated on the pond. He'd chewed bits of the leaves at regular intervals and had noticed no aches or illness. Watching the twin suns crawl across the alien sky, he spotted three silverbacks positioned strategically around the basin, attention fixed on the crystals. One stayed closer, clearly a sentinel.
They weren't merely passing through. Their intelligence unnerved him. This exposed cluster of humming, energy-sapping crystals, watched by increasingly bold predators, was no sanctuary; it was a slow death sentence.
Waiting until the main group of silverbacks moved off on another hunt, leaving only the single watcher, Zuberi took his chance. Slinging water skins and meager provisions, he broke from the crystals and sprinted across glittering black sand toward the distant line of indigo-barked trees, praying he hadn't condemned himself to an even swifter death in an endless, maze-like desert.
Zuberi ran, forcing his weary body forward. At every step, he expected to feel the breath of the sentinel in his back, and though he heard it give chase, its steps soon receded and stopped altogether. He did not stop or turn to confirm. Not until he noticed a change to his surroundings.
The transition was abrupt. One moment his feet pounded shifting black sand under the harsh mauve sky; the next, he plunged into deep green shadow.
The air grew thick, heavy with moisture and the scent of damp earth mingled with a sickly-sweet aroma that curled into his nostrils. Glittering sand gave way to soft moss and tangled roots underfoot. The crystals' hum faded behind him, replaced by the vibrant, pulsing rhythm of the jungle, a chaotic thrum he felt deep within.
Every shadow and leaf felt alive, watchful. This place was primal, unsettling, yet undeniably alive in ways the desolate basin was not.
Zuberi moved through dense foliage with a predator's grace, each step silent on mossy ground, senses alert to every rustle of leaves, every faint chirp or snap.
The weight of the machete and chakram secure on opposite hips anchored him—a tether to who he was. They comforted him, reminding him of the warrior he had been before this place took him. No. He clenched his jaw. Before they took him.
His thoughts drifted to his tribe—their laughter, their faces—now little more than echoes haunting him. Guilt clung to him like a shadow, a constant whisper of his failure.
He'd failed in his most sacred duty. Their safety. Yet here, in this alien wilderness, something stirred within—more than regret. Purpose. As if this world were offering a chance for redemption. It might have been a fantasy or the lingering effect of the slug poison.
The river guided him, its murmur leading deeper into the jungle. Then he felt it—a shift, as if the jungle had exhaled. Vines barring his way fell slack; roots writhed back into the earth. A narrow path opened before him, curving toward something unseen.
He paused, hand drifting to his machete as his instincts prickled.
"What game are you playing?" he muttered, scanning the tree line. Sunlight filtered through the canopy in scattered beams, casting dappled shadows that twisted and danced.
He inched forward. The narrow path opened into a small clearing bathed in the twin suns' mauve light. Leaning against a moss-covered tree stood a man—wiry, younger than Zuberi, crackling with restless energy.
His clothes seemed from another world: strange, tattered cloth covering his chest, legs clad in faded blue fabric, and a worn jacket made of dark, cured hide draped over one shoulder. His hair was a wild mop of red, vivid as fire. But it was his eyes, piercing green, sharp, and wary, that captured Zuberi's attention. Beneath the jacket, Zuberi noted the distinct bulge of a concealed bulk with an odd stillness to it, as if the shadows clung there and banished the jungle's light.
Zuberi stopped, hand still on his machete's hilt. "Who are you?" he asked, his voice low, steady, betraying none of the unease within. He'd meant to speak in Isabel's tongue, the only other he knew besides his own, but felt none of the clumsiness he'd always felt when trying it before. And yet, the stranger seemed to have understood him.
The man snorted softly, pushing off the tree. "That's the question, isn't it?" he said. "Stripped of our lives, tossed into this alien hellhole like pieces on a board…does it even matter?"
Zuberi's gaze remained unflinching, though irritation simmered beneath the surface. The man's mocking tone grated on him. He knew this type. A leader must find ways to deal with his ilk, men who tried boundaries and provoked and poked and taunted, searching for violence or stability.
Zuberi held his calm, eying the man as one might study a mangy wild animal. Desperate as it may appear, you underestimated it at your own peril and, something Zuberi had seen far too many times, that foolish mistake would be your last.
"Name's Hanz," the man said, extending a cautious hand. "Hanz Muller," he repeated, flashing a smile as if hinting at a shared secret. Met by Zuberi's blank stare, he shook his head. "And you are…?" he asked.
"Zuberi," Zuberi said.
After a pause, as if expecting more, Hanz gave him a once-over, taking in his attire and steady grip on his machete. "Zuberi," Hanz said. "Sounds like a warrior's name. So, what's your story? How'd you end up here?"
"I was taken," Zuberi said evenly, though his shoulders tensed. "From my people. My home."
Hanz barked a humorless laugh. "Yeah, sounds familiar. One moment I was…" He stopped and something dark flickered across his face. He shrugged, his voice regaining its cynical edge. "Doesn't matter. We're here now. That's all that counts, isn't it?" he asked.
"Have you seen others?" Zuberi asked, eyes narrowing.
"Not people," Hanz said, absently rubbing his side. Zuberi noticed a faint, dark stain spreading on his shirt.
"You're injured," Zuberi said, stepping forward.
Hanz's expression instantly hardened. He tensed, his hand hovering over the tear in his shirt. "It's nothing," he said, teeth clenched.
Before Zuberi could retort, the ground shook. A deep growl rumbled through the clearing, vibrating up Zuberi's feet. Both men froze.
From the jungle's edge, a beast broke out of the canopy's cover. It was a hulking creature with sickle-like claws and black fur matted with dried blood. Its eyes glowed red; its breath escaped in steaming bursts, reeking of rot. To Zuberi it looked like a rhinoceros with fur, three horns along its long muzzle, and a bright red crest atop its head.
"Well, shit," Hanz muttered, taking a step back.
Zuberi's instinct brought his hand to the chakram, but he stopped. Against a beast this size and the thickness of a hide thick enough to hold the muscles that rippled as it charged, the disc felt inadequate. He needed reach or weight. The spear, secure in a travel-carry, string resting against his chest, would be hard to bring to bear quickly. That left the machete, which Zuberi drew in a smooth motion. "Stay back," he ordered, placing himself between Hanz and the creature.
"I'm not some damsel, tribal king," Hanz said, spitting to the side for good measure.
The beast, which had traversed the clearing in long, powerful strides, lunged. Zuberi moved before thought caught up, body a blur. He sidestepped its claws, the world slowing as his instincts sharpened.
Muscles coiled, he swung the machete, the blade biting deep into the creature's flank. The beast, thrown off at not having skewered or chomped its enemy in half, landed awkwardly. It turned and eyed the two men as if deciding which to attack first, then let out another roar.
Zuberi saw shadows ripple around Hanz's feet, crawling like snakes across the ground. But these weren't natural shadows. They moved against the light, with nothing material to cast them, writhing with an almost liquid consistency, responding to Hanz's wriggling fingers. Upon closer inspection, Zuberi noticed that the tips of Hanz's fingers, black as night now, faded to gray then to pink by the time they reached his palms. Then, the familiar lightning pattern appeared and vanished under Hanz's shirt. On Hanz, it was a barely perceptible gray instead of the gold that snaked around Zuberi's own body.
The beast sprang again, jaws snapping. Before Zuberi could respond, the shadows around Hanz's feet intensified. The darkness was no longer faint; it had gained substance and form, as if the very essence of shadow had taken on physical presence and weight. They coiled around the creature's legs with serpentine precision, and Zuberi noticed how the beast's own shadow joined in on the attack, betraying its master. The shadows hardened like obsidian bonds, tripping the monster mid-strike. Zuberi glanced at Hanz and saw shock mixed with something else on the man's face as he stared at the darkness twisting under his plain command.
Zuberi didn't hesitate. He stepped into the strike, the machete slicing through the air with deadly precision. Though fainter this time, Zuberi felt the wave of heat that sparked from within, ran along his chest, down his arm and out of his armed hand, before coming back to him in a back-rush of heated air, like when he opened a cauldron of simmering soup. The beast's roar choked into a wet gurgle as the blade sank deep into its skull.
Its body shuddered in a final spasm before slumping to the ground, the earth quaking once beneath its weight.
Zuberi exhaled, chest heaving as silence settled back over the clearing. He glanced down at the chakram still secure at his hip. The memory of throwing it, only for it to return unnaturally to his grasp, stopping itself just short of slicing his fingers, sent a shiver down his spine. It wasn't right. Weapons were tools, extensions of the wielder's will, predictable. That chakram… it felt like something else now, imbued with the same strangeness as this entire world. In a place where the rules were unknown, relying on a weapon with a mind of its own felt like courting disaster. No, better the solid weight of the spear, the familiar heft of the machete – tools he understood, tools that obeyed him. Zuberi straightened, chest still heaving, and wiped his machete clean on the beast's fur. He turned to Hanz, noticing the shadows still writhing around his hands.
"What manner of sorcery is this?" Zuberi asked, regretting the word choice as soon as the words left his mouth. They felt foolish and hypocritical given the oddities he'd noticed about himself and this place.
Hanz stared down at his hands, watching the shadows cling to his fingers like dark smoke before fading into thin air. Zuberi noticed how the jungle's natural shadows seemed to lean slightly toward Hanz now, as if drawn to him. "I… I don't know," he admitted, voice shaking. "But it feels… familiar somehow. Like something I've always been able to do, just never knew how." For a moment, his assured mask dropped, replaced by something raw and uncertain.
Then he smirked, deflecting. "Not bad, tribal king," he said. "Where did you learn to fight like that?"
Zuberi studied him a moment longer before saying, "I was trained to protect my people. But this…" He glanced at the beast's corpse. "This is something else."
Hanz scoffed. "Feels more like a death trap."
"Perhaps. But we work well together." He noticed Hanz's eyes flick briefly to the rabbits wrapped in leaves slung over his shoulder.
Hanz stiffened. "Don't get any ideas. This doesn't make us friends. But…" He glanced at Zuberi again, grudgingly saying, "We're better off not killing each other, I suppose."
This Hanz had fought, survived so far, and the strange way he manipulated shadows, made them solid, had proven effective. There was strength in numbers, Father had always said. Zuberi agreed. Even numbers this uncertain.
"Agreed," Zuberi said, extending his hand, deliberately going against ingrained caution. "An alliance for survival."
Hanz hesitated, then clasped Zuberi's hand. "Fine," he said. "But I'm watching you."
As their hands released, a faint breeze stirred the clearing, carrying with it the subtle scent of ozone.
Zuberi glanced toward the trees, instincts on edge. "We should move," he said.
Hanz walked next to him. "So, oh wise leader, what now?" he asked.
"Survive," Zuberi said. "Hopefully we can find others."