The frost had thinned, though it had not disappeared. Winter clung to the air like a stubborn ghost, but within the borders of Kan Ogou, warmth flourished. The underground channels Ogou had created still pulsed gently beneath each home, and though food remained rationed, it was more plentiful than in years past.
But the world outside their sanctuary had grown far colder—and far more cruel.
Zaruko stood atop a rise in the land, watching as a line of ragged survivors was led toward the village. They moved like shadows, their eyes hollowed by hunger and grief. Dozens of them. Some were children. Others bore the hardened expressions of warriors stripped of hope.
"They come from a tribe razed during the frost," said Maela, standing beside him. "The scouts found them two days' travel west, living in a cave. Feeding on boiled bark and whatever meat the strongest refused to share."
Zaruko nodded. "Bring them in. Warm them. Feed them."
Maela hesitated. "They worship no god. They may resent ours."
He looked at her, eyes steady. "That's fine. The flame doesn't demand worship — only respect. And Ogou will decide their place, not me."
As Maela moved to carry out his orders, Ogou appeared beside him without warning. No lightning, no quake—just presence. Like smoke curling into form. Zaruko didn't flinch.
"You're starting to sound like me," Ogou rumbled, arms crossed, amusement dancing in his ember-lit eyes.
"Must be the company I keep."
The god grunted a laugh. "These broken people—what will you do with them?"
"I'll give them a home. Train those who wish to fight. Let the rest learn trades or farming."
Ogou turned to study the arriving line of refugees. "Do not mistake pity for strength, Zaruko. Kindness is a weapon. But only if wielded with discipline."
"I haven't forgotten," Zaruko said. "We'll test them. Like we do everyone."
A long silence followed. Then Ogou added, voice lower:
"It's time you met others like me."
Zaruko tensed. "You mean… other Haitian gods?"
Ogou nodded. "They are not as forgiving as I am. Nor as tolerant of mortals who forget their place. You must be careful."
Zaruko said nothing. But a flicker of unease passed through him.
Ogou continued. "I will not summon them. They walk only where they choose. But you must be aware. If they appear… do not kneel. But do not challenge them either."
"Do I bow?"
"You stand straight. As your blood once did. They will test you. Not because they hate you — but because that is how gods measure fire."
The wind shifted. Down below, the villagers began escorting the newcomers to warm homes, giving them water, guiding them with calm voices. Children pointed and whispered about the tattoos on warriors' arms — the sigils of Ogou, still faintly glowing from recent sacrifices.
"You've built something rare here, boy," Ogou murmured. "But flame attracts moths. And beasts. And kings."
Zaruko looked up. "Let them come."
—
In the days that followed…
The newcomers adapted slowly.
Some wept when given bread. Others refused shelter at first, expecting trickery. The children clung to their dead-eyed parents until Maela, with patient persistence, began organizing play, stories, and food for the youngest.
The tribe's military continued its drills — now with structure. Ranks had been introduced: Shieldbearers, Spearlords, and Ashwalkers — titles not from Ayeshe, but forged from Zaruko's old world knowledge, reshaped into this one. It gave clarity. Purpose. Every man and woman who bore Ogou's sigil trained with renewed fire, knowing the winter's end meant others would come — not just for their warmth, but for their food, their fire, their lives.
Ogou watched it all from the forge.
His temple — a structure reminiscent of Haiti's Citadelle Laferrière — loomed with presence and permanence. The villagers now called it Kay Tonnerre, the House of Thunder. Only warriors marked with Ogou's sigil could approach the pool of red rum and blood beside the forge, where the souls of slain beasts helped shape their weapons.
One evening, as the sun slipped low, Ogou beckoned Zaruko to the top of the forge.
"I want to tell you of the others," Ogou said. "So you may not be caught unprepared."
And so he did.
Erzulie: The goddess of beauty, love, and vengeance. A river of roses and razors. If she visits, she does so with silk and knives.
Ayizan: Keeper of mysteries. She sees through lies like glass. Even I speak carefully in her presence.
Baron Samedi: Keeper of the dead. Joyful, crude, and merciless. He laughs as easily as he curses.
Dambala: My brother. Calm. Serpentine. When he walks, the air hums with wisdom and danger.
Zaruko listened, absorbing each name, each warning.
Ogou continued, "None of them have reason to help you. But should you earn their favor, the flame you carry may one day become a firestorm."
"Why tell me now?" Zaruko asked.
"Because you've survived. And now, survival isn't enough. You must shape."
He gestured to the land beyond the walls of Kan Ogou.
"This world will not rest. Beasts awaken. Gods hunger. Mortals covet. You've made peace with fire, now learn to make war with it."
Zaruko didn't smile. But he stood taller.
—
On the seventh day…
From the northern pass, a scout returned, frost-bitten and breathless.
"Another tribe has fallen," he said. "Only two survivors. A mother and child. The rest were eaten. Not by beasts—by people."
The silence that followed was heavy.
Zaruko addressed the warriors that evening. "This world has no mercy. So we must have discipline. Our laws, our ranks, our gods — they are not chains. They are shields."
He pointed to the forge. "Every winter we grow stronger. But now the cold ends. The hungry will come. And we will be ready."
That night, more warriors approached Ogou's forge.
Some succeeded in the hunt. Others failed and stepped aside, choosing to serve in other ways until next year. No one was shamed. Only those who wore Ogou's sigil stood as the first wall between their people and the devouring world.
Maela visited the forge in secret. She did not ask for power. She asked for strength — to stand beside a man who burned like iron.
Ogou gave her nothing but silence. Yet when she turned to leave, she found warmth trailing her steps. And when she trained with the warriors, none could match her for long.
—
At dawn on the tenth day, a black wind blew across the plains. With it came a whisper — from deep, old places.
It said only this:
"They see your fire now. And they are coming."
Zaruko stood atop the Citadel walls. Maela stood beside him. Ogou, far below, worked the forge.
The winter was ending.
The gods were stirring.
And Kan Ogou was no longer just a tribe.
It was a declaration.