The night was not silent.
Though the tribes slept in scattered camps, though warriors laid down their spears, the land itself trembled with whispers. In the roots of mountains and the veins of rivers, in the hollow cries of owls, voices stirred—voices older than men.
Far above, the Moon Father gazed down, his silver eye swollen, his light cold. His silence was not peace but judgment. He had seen the trial, the child who walked the line between shadow and light. He had seen her refusal—and her trembling.
And he had seen the other.
The one who had survived curses, who carried strength where none should. The boy who was no longer crippled, who walked with the scent of the witch's teachings on his skin. The Moon Father's light lingered on him longest, as if asking: Do you serve me, or do you serve yourself?
But in the cracks of the world, something else stirred.
The Forgotten God, once worshipped in ancient ages when men lit fires to the darkness, now little more than a shadow, had tasted the girl's heart. He had been refused, yet he had not been cast out. And that was enough.
So long as they fear the dark, I remain, he whispered into the soil, into the marrow of wolves, into the dreams of sleeping children. So long as she trembles, I wait.
His laughter slithered through the branches of the jungle, and the trees leaned as if listening.
And in that laughter, other gods stirred. Gods who had long watched mankind fall into blood and silence. Some turned their faces away. Others leaned closer. The heavens began to shift, unseen by mortal eyes.
War was coming—not of tribes and spears, but of gods and vessels, of shadows and lights fighting within fragile human flesh.
And in the middle of it stood two children—Ahayue, son of curse, and Alusya, vessel of shadow.
Neither had chosen this path. Yet both had been chosen.
The moon dimmed, shrouded by a sudden veil of cloud. In the dark beneath, a lone owl screamed, and its cry split the night like a prophecy:
The gods no longer watch. They hunger.