Leo stood before the weathered but well-kept shack, its timeworn walls bearing the marks of decades—surface cracks like faded scars, patches where the paint had surrendered to the sun, and rust creeping along the iron edges like slow, persistent ivy. Yet, there was care here. A rocking chair sat on the veranda, its rhythmic creak absent for now, and beside it, an old analog radio with a slightly bent antenna, still stubbornly pulling in the airwaves.
The radio hummed with the rich, rhythmic melodies of Kenyan classics—Luo and Luhya tunes that carried the soul of the land, the kind that made hips sway and shoulders roll in effortless harmony. Leo paused, listening for a moment, the music wrapping around him like a warm embrace. Then, with a slow breath, he stepped forward, his boots whispering against the wooden veranda. His hand hovered near the door, poised to knock—when suddenly, his left eye twitched. A knowing tension coiled in his gut.
He's coming.
The door swung open before his knuckles could meet wood.
An old man stood in the threshold, his presence both gentle and commanding. His skin was dark as polished mahogany, his hair and beard a storm of silver. Age had curved his spine slightly, but there was no frailty in him—only the quiet, enduring strength of a tree that had weathered many storms. His face was a map of wrinkles, each line a testament to laughter, wisdom, and time, yet beneath them lingered the remnants of a once-striking handsomeness. His linen robes were immaculate, his mijikenda hat perched proudly atop his head. One hand held the door, the other rested at his side, fingers still nimble, still sure.
For a heartbeat, they simply looked at each other—the old man waiting, patient as the earth, knowing tradition demanded the younger speak first.
Leo exhaled. "Mzee, good evening."
The old man's smile was slow, deliberate, revealing teeth white as sun-bleached bone. Leo mirrored it, then caught himself—realizing, too late, the unspoken dance of respect he had almost forgotten. Of course. The young must always acknowledge the elders first.
"Leo, my son. Good evening," the old man replied, his voice a deep, warm rumble, like distant thunder over the savanna.
But Leo's smile faded as quickly as it had come. Something darker flickered beneath his composed expression—a weight pressing down, a storm brewing behind his eyes. His face settled into stoicism, the red stubble along his jaw stark against his skin, his dreadlocks threaded with occasional metal beads catching the fading light.
The old man studied him, then turned with a sigh, shuffling toward his rocking chair. "What is it, my child? What brings you to this old man's humble abode?"
Leo opened his mouth—
"Uhh!" The old man suddenly straightened, clicking his tongue in mock dismay. "Where are my manners? You're a visitor!" He pushed himself up, the rocking chair swaying behind him. "I should get you a chair. And some tea?"
He moved past Leo with surprising agility, but Leo caught his arm, gently barring his path. "No, Mzee, don't trouble yourself. I'm fine."
"Nonsense, child," the old man chided, brushing Leo's hand aside with a strength that belied his years. His grip was firm, his bones still unyielding beneath the paper-thin skin. "I have tea boiling on the stove out back. I'll bring it with a chair for you."
"Mzee, then let me get the ch—"
"No, my son." The old man's tone brooked no argument. "You are my guest. You wait here. I'll be back in a moment."
Leo didn't press further. There was a quiet authority in the old man's words, the kind earned through decades, not demanded.
A short while later, they sat together on the veranda, the aluminum kettle steaming between them, the radio's melodies softening the silence. The old man poured the tea with practiced ease, the liquid amber in the lamplight. They sipped slowly, the heat of the brew a comfort against the cooling evening.
And then, at last, the real conversation would begin.
What gnaws at your conscience, my boy?" Mzee asked, his voice low like the murmur of a river over smooth stones.
Leo stared into the dying embers of the evening sun, as if willing it to sink faster, to drown the world in shadow before he spoke his terrible truth. And so, the sun obeyed—its golden light bleeding into the horizon, swallowed by the coming night.
"Mzee, I fear a storm is coming," Leo said, his face a mask of stone, yet his eyes betrayed the tempest within.
"A storm?" Mzee leaned forward slightly, the wooden rocking chair creaking beneath him. "Expound, my son." He recognized the idiom—Leo only spoke this way with him, a habit picked up from their shared love of layered words.
Leo exhaled through his nose. "Xiao Yu showed me something by the edge of the Eastern Wing—our wing. On the border were... remains. Human."
The air between them thickened. Mzee's grip on his teacup tightened imperceptibly, his weathered fingers pausing mid-sip. The rocking chair stilled.
"Our people?" Mzee asked, each syllable heavy as a burial stone.
"No. At least, I doubt most were. They were merchants—outsiders passing through the county."
"So, bandits," Mzee murmured, though his tone suggested he already knew better.
Leo's jaw flexed. "I fear it was much, much worse."
Mzee's eyes—deep-set, sharp as a hawk's—widened slightly. A flicker of dread passed through them before vanishing beneath the weight of decades of discipline.
Leo pressed on, the words like gravel in his throat. "Their merchandise was untouched. But their bodies... most were just... gone. Only chunks of flesh left, torn apart and strewn across the ground like discarded rags. Blood everywhere. Whatever did this wasn't after their goods. It was after them."
A beat of silence. Then, barely a whisper: "Chimera."
The word hung between them, venomous. Mzee set his cup down with deliberate care, the metallic clink unnaturally loud in the quiet.
"Yes," Leo said. "The stories you told us growing up—how dangerous they were, how they rarely crossed our borders. Rarely is the key word, Mzee. Rarely is here."
Mzee's gaze turned inward, as if sifting through memories buried deep. "Did you fight any?"
Leo blinked, caught off guard. Why would he think that?"No. Why do you ask?"
A knowing smile touched Mzee's lips, though his eyes remained grave. "Because I know you, boy. I've watched you grow. The fire in you—I've only seen it in two others: your brother, and... Jarvis."
At the name, Leo's left eye twitched.
Mzee continued, his voice a steady drumbeat. "You wield strength like a born king. Power, yes, but more than that—the spirit to command not just men, but fate itself. You'd face them head-on to shield your people. And I commend that. But pride is a double-edged sword, Leo."
He leaned forward, the lamplight carving shadows into the lines of his face. "These creatures aren't fearsome just for their brutality, but unpredictability. Their strength varies—one might be as weak as an elemental..."
"As weak?" Leo thought, incredulous.
"...while another could be as strong as twenty. And the more they feed, the stronger they grow. Swiftly. Relentlessly." Mzee's gaze drifted into the darkness beyond the veranda, as if seeing specters from the past.
The last time the chimera came, they did not hunt. They savored. They reveled in the terror, the agony, the slow rending of flesh from bone. They were not beasts. They were malice given form.
Mzee inhaled sharply, pulling himself from the memory. "Tomorrow, you will take me there. I must see it for myself. Then, we gather our people at the town square. They must know."
"I just hope we have time to prepare," he added, the words heavy with unspoken fear.
Leo straightened. "Alright. How do I help?"
Mzee turned to him, and for the first time that evening, a true smile—proud, almost fond—touched his lips. "By being you, my son. You already help this place every day. But now, your true work begins. You've seen the horror. You carry the weight of it. They must understand—through you—what we face."
Leo held his gaze, silent.
"The last time these creatures came,"Mzee continued, his voice roughened by grief, "most of our youth today, were unborn, or too young to remember. Many lost fathers. Mothers. Whole lineages were cut down like wheat before the scythe."
Leo looked away, granting the old man the dignity of his sorrow.
After a moment, Mzee placed a firm hand on his shoulder. "My son, you've proven your strength with flame and fist. Now, steel yourself for a harder battle—the mantle of leadership. A man does not just fight for his people. He leads them."