The first light of dawn bled across the horizon, painting the village in muted shades of gray. The air was heavy, as if the very earth held its breath. From every path, villagers emerged in silence, carrying the weight of judgment in their steps. They moved toward the council grounds—the great circle of stones beneath the acacia tree where decisions shaping generations had been made.
Jabari walked among them, but apart from them. Whispers trailed behind him, not hushed enough to be missed. Cursed. Chosen. Danger. Deliverer. Words cut him from both sides, none offering rest. The cloth-wrapped stone pulsed faintly in his pocket, each throb syncing with his heartbeat. He tried to steady his breath, but it felt as if he carried not just a stone, but a storm.
Musa walked at his side, leaning on his staff. His voice was low, meant for Jabari alone. "Do not mistake their noise for truth. Their fear blinds them. Remember—you walk not to be weighed by men, but to stand before God."
Jabari nodded, though doubt gnawed at him. If God is truly with me, why do I feel so abandoned?
The council grounds soon filled. The elders sat in their carved seats, faces lined with years and burden. Around them stood the villagers—men, women, and children pressed together, some clutching charms, others clasping hands in prayer. At the center, a fire had been lit, its smoke rising pale into the morning sky.
Kioni stepped forward first, his presence sharp as a spear. His tunic was clean, his voice clear, his stance confident. "Brothers and sisters," he began, sweeping his gaze across the crowd, "we gather not out of malice, but for the survival of our people. Shadows walk among us. Crops wither, children wake screaming, and livestock vanish in the night. We know this is no ordinary misfortune. And we know where it began."
His eyes fixed on Jabari, cold and unwavering. "The stone. The boy. Since its appearance, we have known no peace. Can we still call him brother, or is he the mouthpiece of something darker?"
Murmurs rose, some nodding, others frowning. A mother clutched her child closer.
Musa tapped his staff, stepping forward. His voice, though aged, cut through the murmurs. "Since when has fear spoken truth? You have seen Jabari pray. You have seen shadows break at his words. Do not call light darkness, lest you be blinded yourselves."
But Kioni did not falter. "If it is light, let it be proven. If it is God, let Him show Himself. But if it is darkness—better to cut the chain before it binds us all."
The council leader, Elder Kefa, raised his hand. His voice was steady but heavy. "Then let the trial be spoken. Jabari, you stand accused of bearing the curse that afflicts this village. You may speak before judgment is made."
All eyes turned to him. Jabari's throat dried, but he forced himself to step forward, the firelight casting flickering shadows across his face. His hands trembled, but he kept them at his sides.
"I never asked for the stone," he began, voice rough. "I never sought its power. From the moment it came, I fought it. You think I wanted your fear? Your suspicion?" He paused, searching the crowd. Some eyes softened, others hardened. "But you've seen it too. When the shadows came, it was not the stone I turned to. It was prayer. And when I called, light came—not from me, but through me."
A hush fell. For a moment, the fire crackled louder than the people.
Then Kioni's laughter broke it, sharp and cutting. "So now he claims the voice of God? Listen carefully, all of you. Does he speak like a prophet—or like one already taken by delusion?"
The crowd rippled with unease. Doubt spread like smoke. Jabari's chest ached. He opened his mouth to answer, but then it came—low at first, then rising: a hiss, cold and jagged, curling from the edges of the circle.
Children clung to their mothers. Men reached for spears. The fire guttered, shadows stretching unnaturally long. From the mist at the boundary of the gathering, a shape emerged—tall, lean, eyes burning red. The figure Jabari had seen in visions now stood before them, real as bone.
Gasps tore through the crowd. Some dropped to their knees, others backed away in terror.
The figure's voice was smooth, laced with poison. "So this is your council? Weighing life against life? How quaint." Its gaze slid to Jabari. "You call for judgment, yet you already know the truth. He is mine. Every prayer he speaks binds him closer. Every act of light feeds the shadow."
The elders recoiled. Kioni pointed, shouting above the chaos. "Do you see? Even the darkness itself claims him! What more proof do you need?"
But Jabari did not move. His knees threatened to buckle, his chest pounded, yet deep beneath the terror, a flicker stirred—words he had whispered over and over in the quiet of night. The Lord is my light and my salvation; whom shall I fear?
The stone pulsed harder, searing against his leg, as if resisting. The red-eyed figure tilted its head, lips curling. "Yes, speak it, boy. Speak it and feel how tightly my chain already holds you."
Jabari's voice broke, but the words escaped anyway, trembling yet clear: "Whom shall I fear?"
The fire roared suddenly high, as if answering, its light forcing the shadows to reel back. The crowd gasped, torn between awe and terror.
And in that instant, Jabari knew—the trial had already begun. The council grounds erupted. Screams tore from the crowd as men shoved their families behind them, spears raised, though their hands shook. The elders scrambled from their seats, their dignity stripped by fear. Smoke from the roaring fire curled into the pale morning sky, black and thick as if it too were choking.
The red-eyed figure stepped forward, shadows twisting at its heels like living chains. Its presence pressed on the gathering like a weight; knees buckled, voices faltered. Children hid their faces in their mothers' skirts.
Kioni seized the moment, pointing an accusing hand at Jabari. "You see! This thing is drawn to him as a moth to flame. There can be no more doubt—he is cursed, bound, one of them!"
Murmurs swelled into shouts. "Cast him out!" someone cried. "End it now before we are all undone!"
Jabari stood rooted, heart pounding against his ribs. The figure's gaze held him, searing and intimate, as though it knew every fear he had ever swallowed. Its lips curled into a mockery of a smile.
"Yes," it purred, voice low but carrying across the circle. "They are not wrong. You are mine, boy. You felt it when the stone burned against your skin. You heard me when you lay awake in the dark. Why fight what has already been written?"
The stone in Jabari's pocket seared like fire, as if confirming the claim. He gasped, clutching at it through the cloth, his knees threatening to buckle. For a heartbeat, he wanted to hurl it into the fire, to be rid of it forever.
But then—Musa's staff struck the earth, sharp as thunder. "Enough!" the old man thundered, his voice trembling with both age and fury. "Do not give the shadow your ears, Jabari. Do not mistake its hiss for truth."
The crowd wavered. Some stilled, caught between terror and doubt.
The red-eyed figure chuckled, a sound like breaking glass. "And yet it is truth. Watch."
With a sweep of its hand, the fire guttered, dropping to embers. Shadows rushed in, drowning the circle in a suffocating gloom. A chorus of whispers filled the air, dozens of voices speaking at once, each one mocking, accusing.
Jabari clutched his head. The voices were his own, echoing his doubts. You are cursed. You are weak. You will break them all.
His breath caught in his throat. His knees hit the dirt. He felt the stone throbbing in rhythm with the whispers, as if alive, as if feeding them.
The figure loomed closer, its eyes burning hotter. "See? Even now you bend. Speak one word, boy, and the fire dies for good."
Jabari shut his eyes. Lord… The word was barely a thought, more plea than prayer. Lord, help me. If You are there, if You are truly light—show me.
A silence split the whispers. Just a sliver. Barely enough. But in it, something shifted. He remembered the psalm his grandmother had taught him when he was small, the one he had whispered the night his father died. His lips trembled as he forced it out.
"The Lord is my light… and my salvation."
The words cracked through the gloom like a spark. The fire in the center leapt, scattering embers high into the sky. The shadows recoiled, hissing as though burned.
The figure snarled, its smooth voice breaking into something jagged. "Do not speak that name here!"
Jabari forced himself upright, though every muscle screamed. The crowd had fallen into stunned silence, all eyes on him. He felt their fear, their doubt, their hope balanced on a knife's edge.
He lifted his voice, louder, steadier. "The Lord is the strength of my life; of whom shall I be afraid?"
The fire roared again, brighter than before, bathing the circle in fierce light. The shadows shrieked and twisted, retreating from the blaze. The red-eyed figure staggered back, shielding its face as cracks spread across its form like shattered glass.
The villagers gasped, clutching each other. Some fell to their knees.
But Kioni shouted above the chaos, desperate, almost panicked. "Do not be fooled! He is summoning power of his own! He toys with fire as they do—he will consume us all!"
His words clawed at the edges of the people's minds, reigniting their fear. The crowd wavered, torn between the sight of retreating darkness and the poison of Kioni's voice.
Jabari's chest heaved. He turned toward them, every word pulled from a place deeper than his fear. "Do you not see? It is not I who hold this power—it is the One I call on. You have seen me. I am weak. I am afraid. But when I spoke His name, light came. Not from me—through me."
The figure hissed, retreating further, its shape flickering, unstable. "You cannot hold them all. Fear will claim them yet. And when it does—you will break with them."
Jabari's hand closed around the stone at last, searing pain shooting through his palm. He lifted it high for all to see. "This stone does not own me!" His voice cracked, but he pushed on. "It was never my chain—it was my test. And I do not stand alone."
With that, he hurled it into the heart of the fire. The flames swallowed it with a crack like thunder, sparks raining down in a blinding burst of light.
The shadows screamed, writhing, unraveling like smoke in the wind. The red-eyed figure clawed at the air, its form breaking apart, fragments scattering into the dawn. With one final shriek, it was gone, dissolved into nothing.
The silence that followed was heavy, thick, but it was no longer suffocating. The air felt lighter, as though the village itself had drawn its first true breath in months.
Jabari fell to his knees, chest heaving, sweat pouring down his face. His palm throbbed with burns, but his spirit felt strangely clear, steadier than it had ever been.
The villagers stared, some weeping, some trembling, all shaken to the core. The elders exchanged looks, words lost in the enormity of what had just passed.
But Musa stepped forward, voice breaking with awe. "You have seen with your own eyes. Light has spoken. The shadows fled—not before a boy, but before the God he called upon."
The people bowed their heads, silence heavy but reverent. For the first time since the stone had appeared, there was no whisper of fear—only the fragile beginning of faith. Smoke drifted from the council fire, glowing faintly as the stone's ashes sank into the embers. The air was calmer now, cool morning wind brushing against frightened faces. Yet silence hung like a verdict not yet spoken.
The elders sat stiffly, their robes smudged with dust and ash. No words seemed to fit the weight of what they had just witnessed. Musa leaned heavily on his staff, his chest rising and falling, eyes fixed on Jabari as though memorizing him anew.
Jabari himself remained kneeling, burned palm wrapped against his chest. Every breath scraped his throat raw. He felt no triumph—only exhaustion, and a dread that lingered despite the shadow's retreat.
Finally, Elder Kefa, the oldest among them, rose. His voice quivered, yet carried a firmness none expected. "We have seen. Darkness sought to claim us. But it was turned back—not by spear, nor council, nor cleverness, but by light spoken through this boy."
A murmur ran through the crowd, reverent but uncertain. Faith shimmered faintly, like embers waiting for breath to fan them into flame.
But before peace could settle, Kioni stepped forward. His jaw was tight, his eyes glinting with fury masked as reason. "Do not be so quick to declare him savior. Yes, something fled—but what if it was not defeat, but trickery? The boy hurled the stone, yes—but who is to say he has not bound himself to a darker pact? He speaks words no villager has spoken in generations. Can you trust what you do not understand?"
Whispers flickered again, doubt rekindled.
Musa's staff struck the earth. "Enough!" His voice cracked, but the fire in his tone silenced even the birds in the trees. He turned to the council. "Whether you see clearly or not, the truth is this: Jabari did not call the shadow—he cast it out. Mark this day. The struggle is not over, but the tide has shifted. If you close your eyes now, you will walk willingly into chains."
The elders exchanged looks, the weight of Musa's words pressing them. At last, Elder Kefa nodded. "Let it be so. Jabari is not cast out. He remains of this village."
Relief surged through some of the people, though others muttered uneasily.
Jabari bowed his head, too drained to speak, though a flicker of gratitude stirred within him.
Kioni, however, stood apart, lips pressed into a thin line. His eyes locked on Jabari, cold and burning all at once. He said nothing further, but the set of his jaw promised this was not over.
The fire crackled, the ashes of the stone faintly glowing. And though morning sunlight spilled across the clearing, shadows clung stubbornly to the edges of the circle, whispering of storms yet to come.