At dawn, the sky bled gold and crimson. The elders traced circles in ash and whispered protection chants as Kure stood at the village edge. Behind him, Ankura's huts smoked with prayers; before him stretched the River Maku, known to the old ones as "The River That Dreams." It was said no man could cross it awake — for it fed on memory, drowning the unworthy in visions of their deepest fears. Yet the whisper of the ground urged him forward.
Kure stepped to the bank, feeling the cool mist wrap around his ankles like curious spirits. "River," he said, "I seek passage, not glory." The water shimmered, its voice neither male nor female, but the echo of all who had spoken before. "If courage is what you seek, courage you must prove. For to walk beyond, you must know what lives within." Then the river rose, forming faces — his mother's, his father's, and his own.
He saw himself as a child, afraid of shadows, hiding from storms. He saw his father's death — how the warrior fell protecting Ankura from raiders — and how Kure had run instead of fighting. Shame burned in his chest. The river spoke again: "You carry the memory of flight, not of fight. Can courage bloom in a heart that once turned away?" The question echoed louder than thunder.
Kure fell to his knees, trembling. "Yes," he whispered. "Because the coward who ran is the man who now stands." The water stilled, turning clear as crystal. Then, like a door opening, it parted. A path of light formed across its body. With steady breath, Kure crossed the River That Dreams — leaving behind not just his fear, but the boy who once ran from storms.