The river moved slowly through the wilderness, dark water folding over itself in quiet persistence. Moonlight skimmed its surface, breaking into shards that trembled with each ripple. Jabari knelt at the edge, the damp earth seeping through his trousers, the cold biting his knees, grounding him in the moment.
He needed grounding.
The stone had changed.
It no longer whispered like a voice afraid of being overheard. It no longer brushed his thoughts gently, testing him, tempting him with fragments. Now it spoke with clarity that cut. Each pulse against his chest was deliberate, timed, as though it had learned the rhythm of his heart and chosen to interrupt it.
Jabari pressed a hand over the pouch, feeling the heat beneath the leather. "Slowly," he murmured, unsure whether he was pleading with the stone or himself. "Please."
The answer came anyway.
The world tilted, and suddenly he was not by the river.
He stood in another place, another time. The air smelled of smoke and old wood. A man knelt before a dying fire, his hands shaking as he held the same stone. The glow reflected in his eyes—wide, terrified, reverent. Jabari felt the man's fear like a memory buried in his own bones. Not fear of death, but fear of knowing too much.
The vision collapsed.
Jabari gasped and caught himself on the riverbank, fingers digging into wet soil. His breath came fast, shallow. These were not dreams. They were not warnings. They were connections—threads pulled tight across generations.
"You're showing me the past," he whispered. "Why?"
The stone pulsed once, firm and unyielding.
Then came the village.
The shift was abrupt, merciless.
He saw the familiar path between homes, but it was darker now, as if the sun itself hesitated to shine there. A woman he recognized clutched her side, sweat slick on her skin, her lips moving in prayer or pain—he could not tell which. A child lay still on a mat, chest rising unevenly, shadows pooled beneath his eyes far deeper than exhaustion.
Jabari's heart clenched. "No," he breathed. "God, no."
The shadows were everywhere.
They stretched along walls where no light should cast them. They curled beneath beds, gathered in corners, clung to the sick like hungry things. They were not attacking. They were waiting.
He staggered back from the river, the vision fading but the weight of it remaining. His chest burned, grief and helplessness twisting together until he dropped to his knees.
"Why show me this?" he cried softly into the night. "Why let me see them suffer while I am here—alone?"
The river answered with its steady flow, indifferent and faithful all at once.
Jabari bowed his head and prayed aloud, his voice rough but resolute, refusing to let fear swallow him whole.
"Be strong and courageous," he said, clinging to the words like a rope. "Do not be afraid or terrified, for the Lord your God goes with you; He will never leave you nor forsake you" (Deuteronomy 31:6).
He repeated the verse again, slower, pressing each word into the silence. Courage did not feel like fire. It felt like endurance. Like standing when every part of him wanted to run.
"God," he continued, his voice breaking, "I trust You—but I don't understand You. Why does this plague reach my people while I am far from them? Why bind me to this stone if it brings suffering to those I love?"
The stone warmed sharply, almost in response, and another vision unfolded—quieter, more insidious.
He saw someone moving among the villagers, speaking gently, offering explanations that soothed even as fear deepened. Jabari could not see the face clearly, only the posture—confident, assured, persuasive. Wherever the figure went, whispers followed, threading themselves into conversations, into prayers, into doubts.
The shadows leaned closer around those who listened longest.
The image slipped away, leaving behind a name that surfaced unbidden in Jabari's mind.
"Kioni."
He stiffened. "What are you doing?" he whispered, unsure whether he addressed the stone, Kioni, or God Himself.
The stone pulsed once, slow and heavy.
Jabari felt then what he had been resisting since the wilderness: the sickness was not merely physical. It was not random. It was being fed. By fear. By influence. By something that understood how to twist hope into dependence.
The whispers and the illness were entwined.
And Kioni stood somewhere between them.
Jabari rose unsteadily to his feet, staring into the darkness beyond the river. The wilderness no longer felt like exile. It felt like preparation. A place stripped bare so he could no longer hide behind noise or comfort.
"I don't want power," he said quietly, the words carried off by the wind. "I don't want knowledge that destroys people. If this is a calling, then teach me how to walk it without losing my soul."
For the first time, the stone did not answer with a vision.
Instead, the shadows at the edge of the clearing shifted.
Not advancing. Not retreating.
Listening.
Jabari's spine chilled. He understood then that the return of the shadows was not sudden. It was gradual, intentional. They were awakening alongside him, responding not only to the stone—but to his growing awareness, his prayers, his questions.
Far away, in the village he loved, sickness deepened its hold.
And somewhere within that spreading darkness, a voice was learning how to sound like comfort.
Jabari turned from the river and began to walk, the stone heavy against his chest, his prayers quieter now but more certain.
The path ahead was no longer hidden.
It had been waiting for him all along.
The wilderness did not resist Jabari's passing. It opened before him in silence, trees standing like witnesses who had already chosen not to speak. The night air carried the scent of damp leaves and earth, and with each step, the stone pressed more insistently against his chest, its warmth no longer steady but restless.
The shadows followed.
Not close enough to touch. Not clear enough to see. But Jabari felt them the way one feels a storm before the clouds gather—pressure in the air, a tightening behind the eyes. When he stopped walking, they seemed to pause with him. When he moved again, they flowed, slow and patient.
"They're listening, aren't they?" he whispered.
The stone pulsed once. Agreement—or acknowledgement.
Another vision struck him without warning.
He saw the village square at dusk. Fires burned lower than usual. People spoke in hushed voices, faces drawn tight with worry. Someone coughed—a deep, tearing sound—and others stepped back instinctively, fear sharper than compassion.
Then Kioni appeared.
This time, the image lingered.
He stood among them calmly, his posture open, his hands raised not in command but reassurance. His voice—though Jabari could not hear the words—moved through the people like balm. Heads nodded. Shoulders relaxed. The shadows, faint as breath, coiled closer around those who leaned in.
Jabari's stomach twisted. "You're not healing them," he murmured. "You're feeding something."
The vision shifted again.
A woman knelt beside her sick husband, tears streaking her face. Kioni knelt too, speaking softly. As he did, the shadows gathered thicker around the man on the mat—not attacking, not retreating—anchoring.
The stone burned hot.
Jabari cried out and fell to one knee, clutching his chest. "God, help me understand!" he said aloud, his voice echoing weakly among the trees. "If this is evil, why does it wear the face of comfort? Why does it come wrapped in kindness?"
His thoughts raced, colliding with memory and fear. He thought of sermons heard as a child, of scriptures half-remembered, of warnings about false light and borrowed authority.
He steadied his breathing and prayed again, forcing the words past the tightness in his throat.
"Your word is a lamp to my feet and a light to my path" (Psalm 119:105). "Lord, if Your word is light, then show me where the darkness hides—even when it pretends to heal."
The shadows stirred at the edges of his vision, recoiling slightly, as if the prayer itself unsettled them.
He rose and continued walking.
The stone's whispers sharpened, no longer fragments but impressions—connections forming, histories brushing against his awareness. He sensed now that the sickness in the village was not new. It had been seeded slowly, nourished by fear and unresolved grief, by unanswered questions and promises that sounded like hope but demanded something unspoken in return.
And Kioni… Kioni had learned how to listen to the stone's echo without ever touching it.
That frightened Jabari more than the Keeper ever had.
Another image came, unbidden but clear: Kioni standing alone at night, eyes closed, murmuring words Jabari could not hear. The shadows leaned toward him, attentive, almost reverent.
"He hears it," Jabari whispered. "Not like I do. But enough."
His steps slowed. Doubt crept in, cold and insidious. If I were there, he thought, could I stop this? Or would I only make it worse?
He spoke his questions to God as he walked, no longer whispering, no longer ashamed of his uncertainty.
"Why give me sight without reach? Why bind me to this stone if it ties me away from those who need me? If I return, will I save them—or draw the darkness closer?"
The wilderness offered no answers. But the stone did.
A final vision rose—brief, devastating.
The village, swallowed by shadow.
Not destroyed. Not dead.
Changed.
Jabari staggered to a stop, heart pounding. "No," he said fiercely. "That will not be their end."
He clenched his fists and straightened his back. "God, if You have called me to this path, then do not let me walk it blind. Teach me when to speak, when to remain silent, and when to stand against what feels stronger than me."
The stone's heat steadied, its pulse aligning once more with his heartbeat.
The shadows withdrew slightly—not gone, but waiting.
Jabari understood then that Arc 4 had already begun, whether he was ready or not. The truth was no longer hidden. It was unfolding, drawing closer to betrayal, revelation, and choices that would not allow him to remain merely a witness.
Far behind him, the river continued its quiet song.
Far ahead, the village waited.
And between them walked Jabari—no longer only the one who heard the stone, but the one who had begun to answer God back.
The wilderness grew still in a way Jabari had never known before.
Not peaceful—attentive.
The shadows no longer pressed close, nor did they retreat entirely. They lingered at the edge of sight, stretched thin like breath held too long. He sensed now that they were not merely following him, but responding—to his prayers, his questions, his growing clarity.
The stone rested heavily against his chest, warm but no longer burning. Its pulse had settled, matching his own heartbeat, as though something between them had reached an uneasy agreement.
Jabari stopped beneath a tall acacia tree and looked up at the scattered stars. "I see more now," he said quietly. "Enough to be afraid. Enough to be responsible."
He bowed his head and prayed again, not rushing, letting the words form slowly.
"Lord, You say You will never leave nor forsake me. I hold to that. But I need wisdom more than safety now. If deception walks among my people dressed as care, give me discernment. If fear spreads faster than sickness, teach me how to speak truth without feeding panic."
The wind stirred the branches above him, scattering leaves across the ground like soft footsteps.
A final vision brushed his mind—not sharp, not violent, but heavy.
The village gathered in prayer. Some cried out to God. Others listened instead to a gentler voice, one that promised relief without repentance, peace without truth. Shadows did not overwhelm them. They settled, patient and rooted.
Jabari understood then: the danger was not possession, but persuasion.
He straightened slowly.
"If I return," he murmured, "it won't be to fight shadows with fear. It will be to stand where truth costs something."
The stone pulsed once, firm and measured.
Far away, Kioni spoke words meant to soothe. The sick listened. The healthy watched. And something unseen leaned closer, pleased not by suffering—but by surrender.
Jabari turned toward the long path back, his steps steady now.
The shadows followed at a distance.
And for the first time since the stone had called his name, Jabari did not feel chased.
He felt sent.