The forest was endless.
Trees thick as towers choked the sunlight, and vines curled like nooses from their limbs. Insects droned. The soil steamed from the day's heat. Every breath tasted of rot and bark.
Zion moved at the center of the group—Kael slightly ahead, Thalia on the rear flank, always watching, always tense.
They had walked for hours. Their legs ached. Their stomachs gnawed. But none of them complained.
Zion's eyes scanned the landscape as they pushed forward. He remembered the layout of forests in Haiti, and though this land was different—larger, older, more brutal—it still had signs. The way the birds moved. The scent of wet stone. The patches of edible moss under shaded rocks.
He made mental notes. "There's water nearby," he finally said. "This way."
Kael looked back, brows raised. "How do you know?"
Zion didn't answer right away. He crouched and dug his fingers into the ground, lifting a fistful of damp earth. "The roots curve in this direction. This isn't surface water—it's running. If we follow it, we'll find a stream."
Thalia's expression barely changed, but she shifted her pace to follow him.
Kael nodded. "You've changed."
"Not just me," Zion replied, eyes sharp. "Everything."
They reached the stream by midday.
Zion dipped his face into the cool water, drinking until the ache in his throat faded. Kael splashed his face beside him. Thalia knelt farther downstream, refilling their pouches and scanning the area for threats.
Birds called in the distance. A predator's howl echoed once—then vanished.
"We'll stop here," Zion said. "We'll build temporary shelter. Hunt. Rest."
Kael slumped down with relief. "Finally."
Thalia narrowed her eyes. "You're acting like a chief."
Zion looked at her, not flinching. "I didn't choose this."
"No," she said, "but you're still leading."
Kael leaned back against a tree. "He's earned it. Carried your limp body for four days—didn't complain once."
Zion glanced down, humble. "You all carried me. I just woke up first."
Thalia set her spear down beside her. "So what's the plan, Chief?"
Zion hesitated, then said quietly, "We survive. Then we build. Not just shelter, not just fire—we build a tribe. A real one. With laws. With clean water. Trade. Safety. People won't survive much longer out here alone. The gods haven't abandoned us. They've been forgotten. I'll teach you about them. I'll remind you of what they once gave our people."
Kael's brow furrowed. "What gods?"
Zion's eyes drifted to the canopy above. "Old gods. Gods from my grandmother's stories. From a world across time and memory. Gods like Papa Legba—who opens the gate between worlds. He gave me a second chance. And maybe… maybe he's watching."
Thalia said nothing. But something changed in her posture. Not disbelief—just caution.
Zion didn't push.
Instead, he stood and pointed toward a high ridge farther east. "Tomorrow, we go there. High ground. We'll scout. If the land is good, we build there."
Kael smiled faintly. "I like the sound of that."
That night, they built a fire.
Not large. Just enough for warmth and light. Thalia set traps with woven vine, her fingers swift and practiced. Kael shaped branches into a half-shelter, covering it with broad leaves.
Zion carved symbols into a flat stone beside the fire—a ritual from his grandmother's altar. Not for power, but remembrance.
The three of them sat together in the glow, eating dried meat and fruit.
"Back in the old tribe," Kael said softly, "I thought I'd die as just another hunter. No name. No stories. But now…"
"You still might die," Thalia said dryly.
Kael laughed. "You always know what to say."
Zion smiled. "You won't die forgotten. None of us will. We're going to change this world."
Thalia turned toward him. "Then you better stay alive, Chief. Because if you die again… there won't be a second body to jump into."
Zion chuckled—and for the first time since he'd awoken in this world, it felt real. He looked at them—Kael, strong and loyal; Thalia, fierce and precise—and felt something warm take root in his chest.
It was fragile. Wounded. Hungry.
But it was the beginning of home.
The forest was endless.
Trees thick as towers choked the sunlight, and vines curled like nooses from their limbs. Insects droned. The soil steamed from the day's heat. Every breath tasted of rot and bark.
Zion moved at the center of the group—Kael slightly ahead, Thalia on the rear flank, always watching, always tense.
They had walked for hours. Their legs ached. Their stomachs gnawed. But none of them complained.
Zion's eyes scanned the landscape as they pushed forward. He remembered the layout of forests in Haiti, and though this land was different—larger, older, more brutal—it still had signs. The way the birds moved. The scent of wet stone. The patches of edible moss under shaded rocks.
He made mental notes. "There's water nearby," he finally said. "This way."
Kael looked back, brows raised. "How do you know?"
Zion didn't answer right away. He crouched and dug his fingers into the ground, lifting a fistful of damp earth. "The roots curve in this direction. This isn't surface water—it's running. If we follow it, we'll find a stream."
Thalia's expression barely changed, but she shifted her pace to follow him.
Kael nodded. "You've changed."
"Not just me," Zion replied, eyes sharp. "Everything."
They reached the stream by midday.
Zion dipped his face into the cool water, drinking until the ache in his throat faded. Kael splashed his face beside him. Thalia knelt farther downstream, refilling their pouches and scanning the area for threats.
Birds called in the distance. A predator's howl echoed once—then vanished.
"We'll stop here," Zion said. "We'll build temporary shelter. Hunt. Rest."
Kael slumped down with relief. "Finally."
Thalia narrowed her eyes. "You're acting like a chief."
Zion looked at her, not flinching. "I didn't choose this."
"No," she said, "but you're still leading."
Kael leaned back against a tree. "He's earned it. Carried your limp body for four days—didn't complain once."
Zion glanced down, humble. "You all carried me. I just woke up first."
Thalia set her spear down beside her. "So what's the plan, Chief?"
Zion hesitated, then said quietly, "We survive. Then we build. Not just shelter, not just fire—we build a tribe. A real one. With laws. With clean water. Trade. Safety. People won't survive much longer out here alone. The gods haven't abandoned us. They've been forgotten. I'll teach you about them. I'll remind you of what they once gave our people."
Kael's brow furrowed. "What gods?"
Zion's eyes drifted to the canopy above. "Old gods. Gods from my grandmother's stories. From a world across time and memory. Gods like Papa Legba—who opens the gate between worlds. He gave me a second chance. And maybe… maybe he's watching."
Thalia said nothing. But something changed in her posture. Not disbelief—just caution.
Zion didn't push.
Instead, he stood and pointed toward a high ridge farther east. "Tomorrow, we go there. High ground. We'll scout. If the land is good, we build there."
Kael smiled faintly. "I like the sound of that."
That night, they built a fire.
Not large. Just enough for warmth and light. Thalia set traps with woven vine, her fingers swift and practiced. Kael shaped branches into a half-shelter, covering it with broad leaves.
Zion carved symbols into a flat stone beside the fire—a ritual from his grandmother's altar. Not for power, but remembrance.
The three of them sat together in the glow, eating dried meat and fruit.
"Back in the old tribe," Kael said softly, "I thought I'd die as just another hunter. No name. No stories. But now…"
"You still might die," Thalia said dryly.
Kael laughed. "You always know what to say."
Zion smiled. "You won't die forgotten. None of us will. We're going to change this world."
Thalia turned toward him. "Then you better stay alive, Chief. Because if you die again… there won't be a second body to jump into."
Zion chuckled—and for the first time since he'd awoken in this world, it felt real. He looked at them—Kael, strong and loyal; Thalia, fierce and precise—and felt something warm take root in his chest.
It was fragile. Wounded. Hungry.
But it was the beginning of home.