JOBE

The sun had begun its slow descent behind the jagged hills, casting long amber shadows across the plains. In the distance, dust rose gently in curls from bare feet pressing into the warm, cracked earth. This was no bustling city of stone and steel this was Inzotho, a hidden village tucked deep into the southern reaches of the continent, cradled between thorn trees and distant cliffs. The people here did not need bricks. They built with their hands and hearts mud, grass, bark, and bone.

The village was small, no more than fifty or a hundred souls, surrounded by acacia groves and the ever-humming breath of wild things. Circular huts stood close together, their thatched roofs sloping like watchful eyes under the sun. Smoke curled from a few cooking pits, and the scent of roasted root, spiced meat, and earth hung heavy in the wind. Children ran barefoot, herding goats or carrying baskets. Elders sat outside their homes on woven mats, weaving or carving bone.

At the edge of this fading light walked a boy.

Jobe, fifteen summers old, returned to his village with steady steps and a silent gaze. He was tall taller than most his age, though not yet fully grown and carried himself with a quiet strength. His skin was dark, a deep earthen brown that caught fire in the sunlight, and his limbs were firm with muscle not from luxury, but from life. He bore the build of someone raised not on stories, but on survival.

His shoulders were broad, his back straight. He had the kind of scars that didn't brag. Small ones, faint, here and there along his forearms, one across his right shoulder, another just beneath the collarbone. They spoke not of battle but of brambles, hunts, accidents, and lessons. They made him real.

His hair was black, coiled tight and cropped close, and his eyes were a sharp, intelligent brown the kind of eyes that missed little, and revealed even less. His jaw held a natural seriousness, but not one born of cruelty; just a boy who had grown up too quickly, whose world had always demanded more.

A dead rabbit was slung across his shoulder, its legs tied together with a strip of vine. It bounced slightly with every step. Behind him followed his companion, a lean dog with a patchy coat of brown and black, ears half-torn from some old skirmish, eyes sharp and loyal. The dog kept close to his heels, tongue out, tail low.

As Jobe stepped into the familiar dirt path of his village, the warmth of his surroundings returned. The village was small, no more than a hundred people, maybe less, spread out in tight clusters of huts and drying racks. Homes were round, made of mud and grass, their rooftops domed and neat, held together with twine and bone. There were no stones, no towers. Only what the land gave and the hands of the people that shaped it.

Children played barefoot in the dust, some carrying sticks or throwing carved stones. Old men sat on woven mats, their knees pulled to their chests, eyes half-lidded in the evening glow. Women stirred pots or pounded grain, their voices soft, their presence grounding.

As Jobe passed, people paused. They nodded to him. Some raised a hand. Others called out.

"He returns again.

empty hands never."

"Jobe, you walk like your father now."

He responded with brief nods, small smiles. He was respected here not as royalty, not with worship, but with something earned. He hunted. He fought when needed. He listened. He helped. And when he disappeared for a day or two into the bush, people did not worry. He always came back with meat, sometimes with news. Sometimes in silence.

Ahead, nestled at the far edge of the village where the acacia trees thickened, stood the chief's house wider than the rest, circled by stones and bones, shaded beneath a great wooden totem. Jobe's eyes drifted toward it, but before he could take another step, a small voice pierced the hush of dusk.

"Big brother!"

The shout came with the pounding of small, bare feet against the dry earth. From between two huts dashed a girl, no more than eleven, her dark braids bouncing as she ran. Her name was Naima wide-eyed, wild-hearted, and fierce in the way only little sisters could be.

She collided with Jobe's chest, arms wrapping tightly around him. The rabbit swung behind his shoulder, the dog gave a huff, and Jobe stoic hunter, quiet son smiled for the first time that day.

"Naima," he said, voice softer than his frame suggested. "You're getting taller. Or I'm shrinking."

She grinned up at him. Her teeth were white, a little crooked. "I missed you. You said two nights. It's been three."

"Had to track a stubborn one," he said, lifting the rabbit slightly. "It led me farther than I planned."

Naima's eyes lit up. "I knew you'd catch it! I told Mama that even if it turned into a ghost and flew away, you'd still bring it back."

Jobe laughed quietly, a breath more than a sound. "That's because you believe in me too much."

"No," she said firmly. "That's because you're Jobe."

She tugged his hand and started walking beside him, the dog circling back to sniff her toes. She kicked at it playfully, laughing again, then looked up at her brother.

"The chief wants to see you, you know."

"I figured," Jobe said, eyes flicking toward the large hut once more.

"He's with the elders," she added, voice dropping just slightly, as if repeating something she wasn't supposed to know. "They're talking about letting you do it."

He stopped walking. The smile faded from his lips.

"Letting me do what?"

She shrugged in the way that children do when they don't want to betray a secret but also crave the thrill of sharing it. "I just heard them say your name. Loud. And one of them said 'he's ready' and Papa said 'he's still a boy.' But they were talking like how they talk when something big is coming."

Jobe's jaw tightened. For a moment, the only sound was the wind threading through grass, the quiet creak of rope on a drying rack nearby.

Naima stepped in front of him and poked his chest. "You're not still a boy. You're my big brother. You're stronger than everyone your age.

He knelt and ruffled her hair gently. "But not stronger than you," he said.

"Liar," she whispered proudly.

He leaned in and kissed her forehead, then stood, letting out a breath through his nose. "Go home. Help Mama. I'll come see you after."

"Promise?"

"Promise."

She grinned and darted away, calling out something to the dog, who barked once and chased after her.

Jobe turned toward the chief's hut, the firelight flickering through its woven entrance, shadows moving beyond the flap. His eyes lingered there for a moment longer, his face calm but unreadable.

Then he walked forward, toward whatever waited inside.

The entrance to the chief's hut was tall and wide, the woven grass flap swaying gently in the wind. Unlike the smaller homes of the villagers, the chief's dwelling sat in the village center, encircled by smooth stones and painted symbols signs of protection, of lineage, of the spirits who guarded their people.

Jobe stood at the threshold for a moment, then pulled the flap aside and stepped in.

It was dark and warm inside, lit only by a central firepit that cracked and popped with orange light. Smoke curled toward a hole in the thatched roof above, drifting in lazy spirals. Around the fire sat four men, their faces carved with time skin weathered by sun and wind, eyes sharp with memory.

At the head sat the chief. His father.

Chief Endoro was a tall man even seated, his broad shoulders wrapped in a cloak of lion-hide, his hair coiled and bound with copper rings. His face bore the marks of command three deep scars across his cheek, not from war, but from the ceremonial blades of ascension. His voice, when he spoke, was deep and patient.

"Jobe," he said without looking up. "You've returned."

"I have," Jobe said, stepping into the light. He dropped the rabbit beside the fire, and the dog flopped down beside it, tongue lolling.

The eldest of the council, a thin man named Mwika, leaned forward. His beard was long and white, and his fingers tapped slowly against a carved staff. "You are always returning with game. Never empty-handed. The spirits have favored you."

"Or I've learned to walk longer than others," Jobe replied. A few of the elders nodded with small, approving smirks.

But his father did not smile.

"We have been speaking of you," Chief Endoro said. His eyes met Jobe's now sharp, unwavering. "Of your future. Of what must be done."

A silence settled. Jobe did not speak.

Another elder, Kito, cleared his throat. "You've seen more than most boys your age. Fought hyena packs. Climbed the cliffs of N'bara. Tracked prey for days. You are strong, and more than that you are steady."

"And yet," said Mwika, his eyes narrowing, "you are still a boy in your father's eyes. One who has not yet bled in battle, nor taken the Oath."

Jobe's gaze flicked to his father. "Then let me. Let me take it."

Endoro raised a hand, stopping him. "The Oath is not a thing you beg for. It is earned. It is risked. The rite that comes with it… many never return."

"I know," Jobe said quietly. "I've heard the stories."

"Stories are firelight tales," Endoro snapped. "What waits in the jungle is no tale. It is death, and blood, and spirits that do not answer prayers."

"But I am ready," Jobe said. "You know it. You trained me yourself. You watched me hunt alone since I was ten. You had me carry your blade when I could barely hold it. Why prepare me so long, only to doubt me now?"

For a moment, the only sound was the fire crackling.

Then Mwika spoke again, his voice gentler this time. "We do not doubt your strength, boy. But strength does not mean survival. And your death would cost this village more than you know."

"I'd rather die seeking my place than live being denied it," Jobe said.

That made Endoro rise slowly to his feet. The lion-hide cloak fell behind him like a shadow. "Then you will have your trial."

The other elders stirred, some surprised, some silent.

Endoro's eyes bore into his son. "two days from now at sunrise, you will journey alone to the place where the river splits. You will stay there seven nights. No fire. No shelter. No steel. Only what the land gives you. And use that to kill a lion and if you fail you will never be one of us"

Jobe did not flinch.

"If you return with lion head Then you will take the Oath," Endoro said. "And carry my name."

Jobe bowed his head.

The chief turned away, voice rough with quiet pride: "May the ancestors be kinder to you than they were to me my son."