The jungle swallowed sound.
Even the birds refused to sing.
Amarachi moved like smoke through the trees, her staff aglow with a dull orange pulse. Beside her, Chima walked with his machete drawn, his gaze sharp, scanning the undergrowth for tracks. He didn't speak. Neither did she.
They didn't need to.
Behind them, distant and quiet, Alaric followed—one hand on the satchel slung across his chest, the other clenching a strange dread he couldn't name.
He hadn't missed the way Amarachi's eyes softened when she saw Chima.
He hadn't missed how Chima's gaze lingered on her waist, her lips, and the look in his eyes.
The way Amarachi didn't flinch when he comes close to her, and the way her eyes lit up when she spoke to Chima.
"I know this path," Chima finally said. "They took the boy toward the old yam mounds. Past the grave of the rain priest."
Amarachi nodded. "Then they're trying to breach the threshold. The witches are testing the limits."
"They chose him for a reason," Chima said.
She paused. "Why?"
"Because you'll follow."
That silenced her.
They reached a clearing. Scorched earth marked the center—an unmistakable sigil of fire spiraled outward in fresh ash. It pulsed with residual heat. Around it, bones of birds and rats formed patterns—watchful eyes, twisted mouths.
Alaric stepped forward, pulling out his field scanner.
"It's not just witchcraft," he muttered, watching readings scroll across his screen. "There's gamma activity—high frequency pulses, like signals."
"Signals?" Amarachi asked.
"Like… someone—or something—is listening. Or calling."
Suddenly, Chima knelt by the edge of the sigil. He reached into the soil and pulled out something small, round, and charred.
A child's anklet.
Amarachi's breath caught. Her fingers brushed it, trembling.
"The witches know I'm bound to the land," she whispered. "And to every soul in it."
Chima stared at her, his longing masked by worry. "You don't have to carry it alone you know, you can share your burden with me."
She met his gaze. The jungle seemed to lean in. Her voice was barely a breath: "But I was chosen alone."
Alaric felt something twist inside him.
"Maybe chosen," Chima said, rising. "But even chosen ones need someone who knows who they were before."
That landed heavier than any incantation. Amarachi lifted her head starring into Chima s eyes as he towered above her.
Alaric stepped forward, his voice a little too firm. "And what about now?"
Chima turned. "Now, she's with you. But will she be when the fire takes everything else?"
"Enough," Amarachi said, but her voice shook.
Suddenly, the sigil flared. A spark rose from the ground and coiled into a voice—not Ezuma's, but one of her lesser sisters.
"You cannot save him," it hissed. "The boy belongs to the fire now. Unless you trade."
"Trade what?" Amarachi demanded.
The flame danced, then cackled. "Blood, Blood, and more blood. Submit yourselves willingly and maybe we will let the boy live."
Then it vanished.
Amarachi stared at the ashes. Chima was silent. Alaric stepped closer.
"You're not trading anything," Alaric said. "We'll find the boy. There's always another way."
She didn't answer, only turned back toward the jungle's heart.
Behind them, high in the branches, something unseen slithered along the canopy—watching, listening.
And in the shadows ahead, the child waited. Wrapped in a cocoon of burning threads. Alive, but caught up in a dark dream.