The forest lay thick and silent under the heavy cloak of dusk. The air was warm, wet with the scent of damp earth and smoke from distant fires, tangled with the faint hum of insects and rustling leaves. Somewhere far off, an owl's mournful call echoed, a lonely sound that seemed to mark the end of one day and the beginning of another.
Zaruko's eyes snapped open, wide and unseeing for a moment. His breath came ragged, each inhale sharp against the chill creeping into his bones. He lay on his back, the rough ground pressing cold and unforgiving beneath his skin. His limbs ached, muscles unfamiliar yet strangely alive, twitching beneath skin slick with sweat and dirt.
He turned his head slowly, taking in the canopy above—the twisted branches blotting out the fading light—and the scent of wildflowers heavy on the humid air. A low, pulsing heat caught his attention. His gaze fell to his left forearm.
There, beneath his skin, a jagged pattern glowed faintly. Like molten iron cooled too quickly, the sigil was cracked in places but shimmered with a fiery light that seemed to breathe beneath his flesh.
His fingers trembled as he raised his arm, watching the sigil pulse in time with his heartbeat. A dull warmth spread up his arm, a pulse that felt alive—demanding.
"What… is this?" Zaruko whispered, voice rough and strange in his own ears. He flexed his fingers, watching the glowing symbol shift and flicker, almost like a living thing trying to make itself known.
Memories fluttered just beyond reach—a name, a place, a face. But like smoke slipping through his grasp, they faded before he could grasp them.
His head throbbed, and a wave of nausea washed over him. He forced himself to sit up, brushing dirt and leaves from his clothes, whatever those clothes were. His hands felt strange, calloused yet new, as if made for battle but never tested.
Rising unsteadily, he scanned the unfamiliar forest. Towering trees stretched into the twilight, their leaves whispering secrets on the breeze. The ground beneath was soft, littered with moss and tangled roots. Somewhere nearby, the faint glow of firelight flickered, accompanied by low voices.
A flicker of instinct stirred in Zaruko's gut—an urge to seek shelter, answers, or perhaps others like himself. He began moving cautiously toward the light.
Branches cracked underfoot, and the voices sharpened. He slowed, blending into the shadows, senses alert.
Through the trees, Zaruko glimpsed a small clearing. Around a low fire sat a handful of people — men and women with faces hardened by hardship and survival. Their eyes, dark and wary, locked on Zaruko immediately.
They rose silently, weapons in hand—spears tipped with sharpened bone and arrows notched and ready. Their muscles tensed, bodies poised like predators.
Zaruko lifted his hands slowly, voice steady despite his own rising tension.
"I mean no harm," he said, his words halting but honest. "I woke here… lost. I don't know who I am."
The group exchanged wary glances, whispering in a language Zaruko did not understand. His glowing arm drew their eyes — the fiery sigil shimmering faintly in the firelight.
One of them stepped forward — a woman with streaks of ash painted across her cheeks, her gaze sharp and unreadable. She spoke slowly, as if testing the sound of her own voice.
"That mark… it is not from any god or spirit we know."
Another man growled, stepping beside her. "It looks like fire… but broken, like a curse."
Zaruko flexed his fingers, feeling the pulse of heat within him grow stronger. The mark burned beneath his skin, an angry ember waiting to blaze.
Suddenly, a sharp snap of a twig echoed from the dark forest edge. All eyes turned, weapons raised.
The woman hissed, "Scouts. Enemies."
The tension thickened, raw and electric. Zaruko's heart thundered, the fiery sigil flaring brightly as adrenaline surged through his veins. His instincts kicked in, years of unremembered training flooding back.
He stepped forward without hesitation. "I will fight with you."
The tribe — if they could be called that — hesitated, then silently allowed him to stand among them.
From the shadows, figures emerged, moving swiftly and silently. A dozen or more, armed and dangerous, their intent clear.
Zaruko met the first attacker's charge, dodging a spear and countering with a fierce strike, the fire on his arm glowing with every movement. The warmth spread through his muscles, sharpening his senses and focus.
The battle was brutal and swift. Zaruko fought with a ferocity born of something deeper than memory — a fierce determination to protect those who had taken him in without question.
The attackers faltered and retreated into the night, leaving silence in their wake.
As Zaruko stood, breathing heavily, the glowing sigil on his forearm dimmed to a steady ember once more.
The woman with the ash streaks approached, eyes shining with a mix of awe and suspicion.
"You fight as if something calls you," she said softly. "But we know nothing of your mark or who you are."
Zaruko met her gaze, the weight of something ancient settling upon him.
"I don't know who I am," he said quietly. "But this mark… it's a part of me. And I will learn what it means."
The fire crackled, shadows dancing across their faces, as the forest whispered secrets around them.
Somewhere deep inside, the ember burned brighter — a promise of power, destiny, and a path yet to be walked.