It had been a week since the voice left him.

  Since the angel whispered promises wrapped in guilt.

  Since Rell agreed to stay — not because he wanted to…

  but because he couldn’t bear the weight of maybe breaking everything again.

  He hadn’t said it out loud, but the words haunted him just the same:

  I killed her.

  —

  The jungle never answered.

  It just… watched.

  He sat on a smooth stone near a shallow stream, its surface thick with green pollen trails. A leaf dropped beside him, landing without sound.

  The air was always warm here — not hot — like something exhaled from the soil. The wind didn’t blow so much as weave, bending between trees, curling through roots, never quite touching him unless it meant to.

  Rell glanced up.

  High above the canopy, birds he couldn’t name wheeled through filtered gold light. Insects chirped low and rhythmic — like a language too old for human mouths.

  And somewhere in that language, a presence stirred.

  —

  “Damn. You brood worse than the wolves.”

  The voice came from nowhere and everywhere.

  Then came the laugh — sharp, full, and ancient. Not cruel… but feral.

  He arrived like a hallucination.

  One moment Rell was alone.

  The next, a blue-and-white-furred simian, broad as a war general and layered in glowing tribal runes, was crouched upside down on a twisted vine just a few feet above his head — head tilted, grinning with cracked teeth.

  He smelled like dried fruit, smoke, and old bark. Not rotting — aged.

  His fur shimmered faintly with movement, patterns glowing cyan under his arms and across his shoulders. Bones, teeth, beads, and string trailed from his braids, clicking faintly with every small twitch.

  His eyes were the worst part — wide, golden-orange, always smiling… and never blinking.

  His voice hit Rell’s chest more than his ears. It was deep, musical, weirdly rhythmic — as if the syllables were dancing with themselves.

  “Up you go, jungle boy. It’s time we get to the fun stuff. Enough of the sulking. You can do that later — after your first ego dies.”

  Rell didn’t respond.

  Ko’Mala dropped to the ground without a sound, landing on all fours. His fingers — long, cracked, and padded — gripped the dirt like it was alive. When he stood, his full form dwarfed Rell by two feet at least. A crooked staff carved from a bleached jawbone clacked into place beside him.

  “Today’s your lesson. Magic. Real magic. None of that borrowed junk you humans wear like old perfume.”

  He sniffed Rell once — long, drawn-out — then scrunched his nose.

  “You still smell like doubt. Good. That means you ain’t pretending.”

  You could be reading stolen content. Head to the original site for the genuine story.

  —

  Rell’s mind wandered.

  He didn’t speak immediately — not out of rudeness. He was still processing.

  They let him speak. That was the weird part.

  The blessed beasts — like Umbwe, Ko’Mala, and the wolf — didn’t talk with mouths, not to each other. But somehow, when they spoke to him, it translated. Not into sound — into understanding. Like their voices echoed across his soul, not his ears.

  When Rell tried to talk back in their native tongue, though — it came out broken.

  “You… thank,” he once tried to say.

  Ko’Mala just stared at him, blinked slowly, and threw a berry at his head.

  Even now, he could translate. He could understand. But speaking it? Still sounded like a caveman with a bad concussion.

  —

  They hadn’t let him leave.

  The beasts said it was for his safety.

  But Rell knew the truth. They were watching him. Studying him.

  The angel’s words weren’t just his burden — they were everyone’s problem now.

  He had told them everything:

  Where he came from. What the angel said. That there was a demon sleeping inside him.

  And somehow… they didn’t kill him. They took him in.

  But that didn't mean he was free.

  He was being trained. Taught. Studied.

  He didn’t know if that made him a student — or a loaded weapon on a leash.

  —

  “Alright,” Ko’Mala snapped his fingers. “Conjuring. Time to see what kind of spark you carry.”

  He dragged the butt of his staff in a circle across the dirt. As he spoke, the air around him vibrated faintly — like distant drumbeats in the lungs, not the ears.

  “Mana moves like rhythm. You don’t shape it. You let it shape with you. Match the vibration. Pull. Press. Snap. Then release it.”

  He explained the breathing. The hand motion. The mental pull. The visual cue. All of it.

  Rell mirrored him. Repeated the exact words. Held the stance. Matched the energy.

  Nothing.

  —

  Ko’Mala stared for a long second. Then barked out a laugh so wild it startled nearby birds into flight.

  “Ohhh… poor thing. You tried to understand it.”

  He leaned forward, nearly nose-to-nose.

  “Let me show you.”

  Ko’Mala spun the staff once, stomped one foot, and grunted low.

  The circle in the dirt flared. From it, a vine-wrapped frog emerged, blinking with spiraled runes along its back.

  Rell narrowed his eyes.

  He mimicked it exactly.

  Same stance. Same stomp. Same focus.

  The circle lit.

  A frog appeared — slightly larger, with crooked legs and a confused croak — but it was there.

  Ko’Mala’s grin widened.

  “Ohhhhhh. Now we’re cookin’.”

  “You ain’t a student. You’re a mirror. Let’s see what happens when we crack it.”