The night was thick with smoke. Charcoal flames licked at the air, painting the tribal encampment in a restless glow. Crickets chirped in the underbrush, their chorus broken by the occasional roar of distant beasts prowling the jungle. Yet within the camp, another sound ruled—the chanting of the priests.
Twelve of them knelt in a circle around a towering effigy carved from blackwood. Its form was neither fully man nor beast; shoulders too broad, jaws too long, fingers ending in cruel hooks. Within its hollow eye sockets, coals smoldered, casting flickers of red that danced like living fire.
The High Priest, Anoru, stood at the idol's feet. His robes were painted in ash and ochre, a jagged pattern resembling cracked earth. He raised his hand, and the chanting ceased.
"She has revealed herself," he said.
The words slithered through the circle like a serpent. Several priests shifted uneasily. One of the older men spat into the fire.
"A girl," he scoffed, though his voice trembled despite his derision. "Barely weaned from her mother's milk. And yet our warriors claim she shattered beasts and burned the earth as though it were dry bark?"
Another priest leaned forward, her eyes reflecting the coals. "It was not the girl. It was what stirs within her. A spark not meant for mortal flesh."
Murmurs rose. Some bowed their heads in reverence; others curled their fists in anger. One word threaded them together, whispered like a curse and a prayer.
"God…"
Anoru's gaze fixed on the effigy. The firelight caught the sharp angles of his face, making him look carved from the same blackwood as the idol.
"No," he said, voice cutting through their muttering. "Not a god returned. A god stolen. The Ashen Lord's breath rides in her veins, awakened where it should have lain dormant."
The circle erupted.
"Blasphemy!" cried one."Salvation!" shouted another."Abomination!" hissed a third.
The fire spat embers as though echoing their turmoil.
The Spreading Story
By dawn, runners left the encampment, carrying words faster than steel. Their bare feet slapped against the jungle paths, carrying with them tales already twisted by awe and fear.
In one village, they claimed the girl's shadow grew horns and wings when the moon rose. In another, they swore her hands bled fire that could sear flesh from bone. Elsewhere, she was said to whisper to beasts and bend them to her will.
The truth was lost, devoured by imagination and dread. Yet the essence remained unshaken:A god-touched girl walks the ruins.
Around every fire circle, the people argued.
Some, weary of beasts and plague, clung to hope. Perhaps she was chosen. Perhaps the gods had not abandoned them after all.
Others trembled at the thought. No mortal could carry such power without shattering the world around her.
The story spread like a fever, burning hotter than the jungle's noonday sun.
The Priests' Decision
Back in the temple, the Circle of Priests argued until their voices were raw.
"She must be destroyed!" one barked, his voice echoing through the wooden beams. "Better ash than to let the god consume her and through her, us all."
Another, younger, almost trembling with zeal, countered: "No. She is a vessel. We must capture her, honor her, chain her power to our will. To kill her is to spit upon the Ashen Lord's gift."
The argument swelled until Anoru struck his staff against the ground. The crack silenced them, reverberating like thunder.
"She is neither to be worshipped nor destroyed," he declared. His eyes burned with certainty. "She is to be hunted. Captured. Broken. If she survives the breaking, she will be forged into the blade of our people. If she fails…" He let the silence devour the words.
One by one, the priests lowered their heads. None dared to challenge him. Yet unease lingered in their hearts, heavy as stone.
Echoes of Faith
That night, long after the circle had disbanded, Anoru remained alone before the effigy. The fires had died to embers, and the jungle pressed close, its noises hushed as though listening.
He laid his hand upon the blackwood chest of the idol. The surface was cold, yet beneath it he felt a pulse—a faint, unnatural thrum that did not belong to wood or stone.
A whisper stirred in his mind, sliding like smoke through his thoughts.
She is mine.
Anoru's breath hitched. He bowed deeper, pressing his forehead against the idol's surface, reverence and dread coiling within him like twin serpents.
"Yes, Ashen Lord," he whispered, his voice cracking. "She is yours. But she is also ours to test. And we… we will be your crucible."
The coals in the effigy's sockets flared, just for a heartbeat, as though in agreement.
And somewhere far away, the girl slept—unaware that her name was becoming both a prayer and a curse, carried on the lips of hundreds who would soon come hunting.
I. The Runners
The boy's lungs burned as he dashed through the undergrowth. His name was Karo, barely fourteen rains old, but the High Priest's order had been clear: Run until your voice dies, but do not let the tale falter.
The jungle was a living thing that fought him at every turn. Roots snagged his ankles, thorns tore at his legs, and insects swarmed his sweat-slick skin. Still, he ran. At times, he repeated the words under his breath like a charm, forcing them into rhythm with his heartbeat.
A god-touched girl… a god-touched girl walks the ruins…
But when he stopped for water at a stream, bending low to drink, his reflection wavered in the ripples. The boy looked into his own eyes, dark and wide with fear.
"Gods…" he whispered, shaking his head. "Or just another lie?"
The stream answered with silence, broken only by the croak of frogs. Karo pushed on, knowing he had no choice but to carry the story, whether he believed it or not.
II. The Village Fire
By dusk, Karo stumbled into a riverside village, his legs nearly collapsing beneath him. The people gathered quickly—women with half-woven mats in their laps, children clinging to their mothers' skirts, men smelling of fish and sweat from the day's labor.
Karo recited the tale as he had been told. His voice cracked, but the words carried.
"A girl… a girl wielding the power of the gods. Our warriors saw it with their own eyes. The priests say she is chosen—or cursed. The Ashen Lord himself stirs through her."
Gasps rippled through the crowd. A few crossed their chests with trembling fingers, warding off evil. Others leaned closer, their eyes burning with a desperate light.
"Chosen?" one man muttered. "If she bears a god's strength, perhaps she could protect us. Perhaps no more beasts would slaughter our herds."
"Fool," spat an older woman. "You know what happens when mortals touch the divine. They burn, and the fire takes everyone near them."
Children whispered behind their palms. One girl tugged at her brother's sleeve. "Do you think she glows in the dark? Or has wings?"
The brother shrugged, wide-eyed. "Maybe she eats hearts."
Laughter, nervous and sharp, scattered the whispers. But beneath it all was unease—a tremor that settled in the villagers' bones long after Karo had collapsed, exhausted, at the foot of their fire.
III. The Hunter's Doubt
Farther north, in a hunting camp strung with drying pelts, another runner delivered the tale. This one was older, a man named Sova, lean as a bowstring, his face hardened by years of stalking prey.
He repeated the same words: A god-touched girl… a vessel of divine flame…
The hunters listened in silence, sharpening spears, their faces unreadable in the firelight. When the runner left, they sat for a long while without speaking.
Finally, one broke the stillness. "If it's true… what chance do we have? We hunt beasts, not gods."
Another spat into the dirt. "And if it's false? If it's just the priests stirring fear to keep our heads bowed?"
Sova, still lingering at the edge of the fire, felt his stomach twist. He hadn't spoken his doubt aloud, but it gnawed at him. He had seen the way priests' eyes burned when they spoke of her—not with worship, but with hunger.
Was the girl truly god-touched, or just a weapon they wanted to claim?
He did not know. But the story had already left his lips, and stories, once loosed, could not be called back.
IV. The River Crossing
In another village, the tale arrived by boat. Fishermen ferried the words across the river along with their catch of scaled silver fish. Here, the reaction was different.
The people did not recoil or argue. Instead, they sang.
An old crone beat her drum and chanted, "The god returns, the god returns through flesh and bone." Children danced in circles, their bare feet slapping the wet earth.
Some wept openly, lifting their faces to the sky. For them, the god-touched girl was not a terror but a promise. Proof that the gods had not abandoned them to beasts, plagues, and endless night.
Faith blossomed where fear had ruled, reckless and wild.
V. The Priests' Unease
Back in the temple, Anoru received word of these spreading reactions. His jaw tightened as reports trickled in: fear in some villages, doubt in others, devotion in yet others.
He knelt again before the blackwood effigy, its hollow eyes still glowing faintly.
"She is a spark," he murmured. "Already, the people burn with her name. If we do not claim her, she will slip beyond us. If we do not break her, she will become a fire we cannot control."
The whisper returned, faint but unmistakable, curling around his thoughts like smoke.
Bring her to me.
Anoru's lips thinned into a cruel smile. "Yes, Ashen Lord. She will not remain free. She will kneel, and through her, all shall kneel."