The jungle became Heghmoh’s only companion in the years that followed his exile.

He slept beneath its tangled boughs, hunted its game, and learned the silent patterns of its breath. Seasons shifted, and he shifted with them. He carved tools from stone and bone. He ate what he caught or gathered. When storms came, he took shelter in the hollow roots of ancient trees. When heat bore down, he trekked deeper into shaded valleys.

He rarely spoke.

There was no one to speak to.

Some nights he dreamed of the hunting party, scattered in pieces across the blast site. Other nights he dreamed of the invisible force that had cocooned him, waking gasping as though it were tightening around his ribs, slowly crushing him.

More than once, as he rested against a tree and tried to still his breathing, he felt a pulse of energy under his skin. At first he recoiled from it in fear. Later, he learned to let it rise, to focus it, to control it. He learned to use it. He found he could swat flies without lifting a hand, clear brush from his path without touching it, and when he plunged his knife into a beast, it felt as if his mind plunged with the blade.

Sometimes, when the air shimmered at the edge of his vision the way it had before the eruption, he froze, waiting for another unseen force to rip the world apart.

He never returned to the village. Not fully.

He watched from afar sometimes, perched high in the boughs or low in the brush. Children played in the clearing. Hunters returned with kills. Smoke rose from hearths. The sight brought both warmth and sorrow, and he always turned away.

They had banished him, but he still felt responsible for them.

Especially after surviving when no one else had.

Had the jungle really burst because of him and the strange power within him?

He kept his distance.

Heghmoh stalked a wounded stag through a ravine, blood flowing from the spear driven into its side. It would bleed out soon and calm. He slowed his breathing, muscles steady, preparing to move closer.

Suddenly he snapped to alertness.

Distant shouting carried on the wind.

Fearful voices.

Strangers.

He eased away from the stag and ascended the ridge with silent steps. From above, he saw a small group of travelers in torn clothing and ragged packs, cornered near a fallen log. Opposite them stood a massive wild boar with broken tusks and patches of hardened hide. The beast huffed clouds of steam, eyes darting wildly, foam bubbling at its mouth. It was in an unnatural rage.

Heghmoh slipped forward silently, spear in hand, edging through the foliage like a shadow preparing to strike. The boar pawed the ground, ready to charge. It suddenly lunged at a child at the edge of the group as she stumbled in fear.

He was too far. The boar would reach her first. Unless...

Heghmoh reached toward her with instinct more than thought.

The space between them folded.

The air rippled.

Light flashed.

In an instant the girl landed softly at his feet, blinking in shock. The boar slid to a halt, confused, then whipped its head toward her new position with a guttural snarl.

Heghmoh lowered into a predatory stance.

The beast charged again.

He met it head-on.

His spear plunged beneath its shoulder, but the boar was too massive for the blow to stop it. Heghmoh felt the haft jar in his grip and pushed harder, not with his strength, but with the force coiled inside him. A pulse of energy burst down the shaft and into the wound. The boar’s chest ruptured, ribs shattering outward as the creature collapsed in an instant.

The group stared at him in a mix of disbelief and fear.

“Stay back,” one woman said with a tremble, rushing to gather the child in her arms.

Heghmoh looked away. A familiar memeory of the repulsion of his tribesman. Solitude had become its own kind of shield.

“We have nothing to give you. Please don’t harm us,” one of the men said with a shaky voice.

Heghmoh understood. They were fleeing something, but they feared him all the same. He dislodged his spear from the boar and turned to leave.

An older refugee with a limp stepped forward with hesitation, catching him by the arm.

“War is coming - It is already here. They attacked our village and drove us out. If your home lies north, you should go. We passed smoke in that direction.”

Heghmoh froze. A cold tremor ran through him.

Smoke.

To the north.

His village.

He was running before the man finished speaking.

Branches whipped at his arms as he sprinted. The ground pulsed beneath him with each step. A psychic static prickled across his skin, warning him of something ahead. His body slipped instinctively into silent stride, every footfall light and controlled. The air shimmered faintly around him as psionic instinct cloaked his approach.

He crested the last ridge.

A thick column of black smoke rose from where his village should have stood.

He crossed into the clearing.

Bodies lay where they had fallen.

Villagers he had known since childhood.

Elders slumped beside the council stones.

A hunter sprawled near the water basin, a clean blade wound across his back.

A mother lay face-down with her hands over a child.

Others bore deep cuts or punctures from spears and arrows, unmistakably the work of raiders or soldiers.

Heghmoh’s breath hitched. His hands trembled.

His eyes landed on one figure beside the council stones. It was Elder Rano. The man who had braided Heghmoh’s first hunting spear. The one who taught him to track, to listen, to respect the jungle’s breath.

Heghmoh staggered toward him, reaching out with shaking fingers. Before he could touch him, the psychic pressure in the air surged. It vibrated through his bones. His vision thinned. His pulse hammered in his ears.

He took one more step.

THWUMP.

The world erupted.

White light swallowed his vision. His ears rang with crushing force. His body seized as if the ground and sky collapsed together. A wave of energy burst from him, uncontrolled and violent.

He never felt himself hit the ground.

He never saw the Black Meridian spotters stiffen at the blast.

He never saw the commander signal for approach.

He never saw the dark shapes closing in.

Everything ended in darkness.