The morning in Kinamis broke with a heavy hush, as though the air itself had lost its voice. The clouds hung lower than usual, thick and gray, casting long shadows over the quiet town. The usual chatter from the treetops was absent. Nothing moved along the dusty paths, no hurrying, no darting shapes, just stillness that pressed against every wall and window.
But inside Mrs. Adian's house, a change had come. Iboro's small chest rose and fell with a steady rhythm. His eyelashes fluttered open as sunlight crept through the cracks in the mud wall. For a moment, he lay still, unsure if the world he saw was real. The thatched roof above him was familiar, and the soft cotton of the old blanket he lay beneath smelled like home.
"Iboro" Mrs. Adian's voice came softly from beside him. Her eyes were rimmed with tears, and her hand trembled slightly as she held a plate of warm millet porridge. "You're awake, my child."
He turned slowly toward her. He whispered in a haste. "Where did I go?"
"You've been asleep for days," she said, placing the plate aside and cradling his face gently. "The healer said your spirit was caught between places. But I knew you'd return."
Iboro closed his eyes again. The visions, of stone, of whispering shadows, of something vast and ancient stirring beneath the earth, lingered like smoke in his mind. He could not explain it, not yet. But he remembered everything.
Outside, word spread quickly. By midday, nearly all of Kinamis knew that the boy had awakened. Some called it a sign of hope. Others remained skeptical.
"Hmph," one of the council members muttered as he joined the gathering near Mrs. Adian's home. "So the boy wakes and suddenly we are saved? We must be careful with such signs. Not all that wakes is meant to help us."
Pa George, leaning on his walking stick, gave the elder man a sideways look. "You think waking from death is nothing? That boy holds something the rest of us can't see. Even Mr. Kristen said so, before he trailed off." A silence passed between them. "Before the gods took him," another elder said in a low voice.
Meanwhile, King Marcus sat restless on the wooden throne inside the community hall. Gafan, his adviser, stood at his side, hands clasped behind him. The king had barely slept. His dreams were no longer his own. They were filled with drums that beat from the deep earth, trees that bled sap as thick as oil, and voices calling out names that had never been spoken aloud.
The curse that had taken root in Kinamis now showed signs of spreading to Azurae, the new town built in place of the razed grove. At first, it was the animals. The chickens there stopped laying eggs. Then plant leaves became yellow even before harvest. Babies wailed through the night, their cries shrill and unsoothable. A pregnant woman collapsed without cause near the new health center. And the well water had started to smell of rust and sorrow.
King Marcus rose from his seat. "This thing is growing."
Gafan nodded solemnly. "It is no longer a Kinamis matter alone. The ground that was broken at Azurae has stirred something deeper than bones and stones."
"We built on cursed land."
"No," Gafan said, facing him. "You built on sacred land. Now it rebels."
Just outside, Stephen Brandt paced in tight circles in front of the company's prefab office, the weight of the moment pressing on his shoulders. Elinz stood nearby, arms crossed, while Keyslar, the foreman, leaned against the rusting frame of a truck. His face was pale, his hands still streaked with grease from trying to fix the excavator that had inexplicably stalled again, its engine refusing to turn over, as though the ground itself rejected their machines. The tension outside mirrored the words echoing inside.
"There's no technical explanation for this," Keyslar said. "The machines stop working as soon as we reach a certain point. Always the same depth, always the same section."
Stephen ran a hand through his thinning hair. "And Mayo and Kefas?"
"Still missing," Elinz murmured. "We've sent search teams, nothing. No trace. No footprints. Nothing."
Brandt slammed a fist on the table. "This is no longer a construction issue. We have to report back to central. We need spiritual clearance. Something's wrong beneath us."
Meanwhile, in Kinamis, Mrs. Adian helped Iboro to sit on a woven mat outside. Neighbors gathered quietly to greet him, their voices hushed, respectful.
Seme, the boy who had discovered Mr. Kristen's death, sat beside Iboro and offered him a carved wooden whistle. "You dropped it that day," he said. Iboro took it gently. "Thank you."
"You saw things," Seme whispered. "Didn't you?" Iboro hesitated. Then he nodded slowly. "It's not done yet."
"What's not?"
"The thing we woke. It's not fully here. But it's watching."
That night, the council members met beneath the moonlight. Harlem, the spiritual guide, stood at the head of the gathering. He wore his red cloth sash and held his carved staff tightly. His face drawn and voice hoarse, recounted his dreams again. "Something watches from beneath," he said. "It saw Kristen. That's why he died."
Harlem raised his voice. "Then we must ask the gods again. There is more to this boy than meets the eye. Iboro must be protected. He is our mirror."
Pa George, who had been invited specially, leaned forward, his voice gravelly but firm. "And Azurae?" he asked, as though the name itself carried weight heavier than stone.
The group fell into a thick silence. Some exchanged uneasy glances, others looked down, as if the ground might offer answers.
At last, Harlem spoke, his tone carrying the ache of someone who had carried truth for too long. "Azurae is a wound we have reopened. To heal, we must return what was stolen."
"But the stone is gone," one of the gathered council members said quietly, his voice thin against the tension in the room.
"No," came a voice from behind them, soft, steady, unmistakably young.
They turned as one, surprised to see Iboro standing just beyond the boundary of the gathering place. He was barefoot, the hem of his garment brushing against the dust, a small bundle clutched gently in his hands.
"I brought this back," he said.
He stepped forward and unfolded the cloth. Inside lay a fragment of stone, black as midnight and threaded with veins of gold. Even in the dim light, it sparkled faintly, almost as if breathing.
A hush fell again, deeper than before. All eyes locked on the object.
"I found it in the dream place," Iboro continued, his voice distant, as if still half-there. "Where the trees had no names. Where Mr. Kristen stood by the river of silence. He told me to bring it back."
Murmurs stirred around the room. Someone whispered, "It's the heartstone, the one from the old place."
"If this is true," said one of the older men seated near the back, "if this is truly the heartstone, then we must bury it again. Where it once lay."
"But that place is now Azurae," another reminded. "Built over. Layered with concrete. Fenced. Guarded."
"Then we must go there," Harlem said, rising slowly to his feet. "And return it to its place. No matter what stands in our way.
At the construction camp, Dumbero, the operator, sat near the fire with Damitz the cook, their mood was tense. No one laughed anymore. Even Klepman, usually the loudest, kept quiet.
Suddenly, a shrill cry tore through the morning air, slicing the camp's fragile quiet. Heads turned. A figure stumbled from the edge of the treeline, arms flailing, mouth open in terror.
"I saw it!" the man yelled, his voice sharp with panic. "Near the trees, it wasn't lying on the ground. It was floating, turning slowly in the air! It looked like stone, but it was pulsing, glowing from the inside, like it was alive. And the light coming from it had no color I can describe!"
The words landed like stones. A ripple of panic surged through the workers. Tools clattered to the earth. Conversations stopped mid-sentence. Someone knocked over a water drum as they backed away in fear.
From the far end of the camp, Brandt was summoned with urgent shouts. Keyslar came sprinting across the dusty stretch, eyes already scanning the horizon. The campfire, disturbed by the chaos, flickered wildly and almost died from the sudden gust of movement around it.
Men gathered in small clusters, murmuring and casting glances toward the forest edge. No one dared go near it. The one who had seen the figure dropped to his knees, trembling, muttering words no one could understand. And overhead, even the birds had gone silent.
"I'm done," Grat said quietly, packing his few belongings. "This is not what I signed up for."
But Dumbero stared into the trees. "It's only going to get worse until the ground is healed."
Back in Kinamis, King Marcus sat across from Mrs. Adian and Iboro.
"We will go to Azurae together," he said. "You, me, Harlem, and Gafan."
The boy nodded. "It has to be night."
"Why?" the king asked.
"Because that's when the watchers sleep."
The king did not argue.
That night, under a waning moon, a small group of villagers, led by the king and Harlem, made their way silently toward Azurae. Iboro carried the heartstone in a wrap across his chest. Gafan walked beside him, muttering prayers beneath his breath.
At the edge of the new site, the air grew thick. The soil crunched oddly beneath their feet. No birds chirped. No wind blew.
They reached the center of what had once been the sacred grove, now paved and hardened.
Iboro stopped. "Here."
He pointed at a crack where the concrete had failed to set properly. A strange vine had begun to push through.
The boy knelt, placed the stone into the vine's opening, and whispered, "Return."
The earth shuddered, once. Then silence. The air seemed lighter. A soft breeze blew across their faces. It wasn't over. But it had begun to turn. And in the distance, somewhere beneath the roots and dust, something old fell back into slumber.