The Council of Orun-Saa had gathered again beneath the sacred dome of Ọ̀run-Kọ́jọ̀, the high sanctum carved from moonstone and ironwood at the summit of Mount Osokan. Its walls shimmered faintly with divine runes etched into the living stone—words gifted by the gods themselves, still glowing with ancient Aṣé.
The twelve Chief Priests, each representing a different god of Orun-Saa, sat around a low, circular dais. Magic lit the room dimly, shaped like flickering lanterns tethered to nothing. The tension in the room hung heavy, like smoke that refused to rise.
At the northernmost seat—draped in black and red, with a serpent-twined staff beside him—sat Adégún, Chief Priest of Èṣù, the Trickster's Voice. His cloak whispered secrets when he moved. His eyes glinted with layered truths.
To his right sat Chief Abiodun, Priest of Ogun, with arms crossed and face marked by battle-scars earned in both faith and war.
Beside them, the others shifted and waited. It was Chief Ireti, Priestess of Ọya, who finally broke the silence.
"Let us begin. We waste breath while Orun-Saa's borders bleed from within."
Chief Olabisi, Priest of Olókun, inclined his head, speaking with a voice like crashing waves.
"There has been unrest in the Eleiye Marshes. Several border towns have reported disappearances. Crops burned. Livestock poisoned. They claim the culprits are sorcerers from the northern fringe. Possibly worshippers of Aringba—though that cult was broken a decade ago."
"Superstition," scoffed Chief Ayotunde, Priestess of Obà. "It's always witches or curses. Perhaps it's simply desperation. Those lands have been poorly managed for years."
Chief Abiodun spoke next, his deep voice like the ringing of hammer on steel.
"I've dispatched five 4th level ase warriors to investigate the towns. Two haven't returned. This is more than hunger or madness. Something moves in the shadows—and the people feel it. You can see it in the way they look at our temples: not for guidance, but for rescue."
Adégún leaned forward, tapping his fingers slowly on the stone table. His voice was calm, calculated, laced with that peculiar duality of mischief and menace.
"And when the people look for rescue, we must be careful of what answers them first. We are not the only voices in the dark."
A brief silence followed his cryptic remark.
Chief Olamide, Priest of Ọ̀sanyìn, who had been silent till now, cleared his throat like rustling leaves.
"Do you speak of the Riftborn, Adégún?"
There it was. The word had been spoken.
The Riftborn.
The heretics. The defilers. The cult of science and shadow who claimed the gods were frauds—and who sought the return of the Iron Kings.
Adégún gave no immediate answer. He simply raised a single brow, as if amused.
But Chief Abiodun did not smile.
"Let's not dance around it," he said, glaring at Adégún. "Your 'concerns' and 'watchfulness' have done little to stop their spread. The Riftborn have grown teeth. And they're biting deeper into our territories with each moon."
"You seem to suggest I've done nothing," Adégún replied smoothly. "But I say—some things are best watched from within before they're crushed from without."
Chief Ayotunde narrowed her eyes.
"Spoken like a man who hides more than he reveals."
Chief Olabisi adjusted the ornate coral beads around his neck.
"This is not a trial, Ayotunde. But we cannot pretend this threat is abstract. And I've heard troubling rumors… That Adégún has taken in fugitives from Nri-Ulo. Dangerous ones."
All eyes turned.
Ireti didn't wait.
"Yes, let's speak plainly: Chizoba. The man being hunted by Ezego, Chief Priest of Ekwensu. A man whose very presence threatens diplomatic collapse between Orun-Saa and Nri-Ulo. And you—you've hidden him under your protection. Why?"
Adégún's smile was unreadable.
"I see the council has been keeping its ears open. Good. Then I won't need to explain who Chizoba is—only why he matters."
He rose slowly, drawing every eye.
"He is not just some fugitive. He is the convergence of two paths long thought opposed—Chi and Aṣé. He is a wound in fate that refuses to scab. And he has knowledge of the Riftborn we don't. He is a key we cannot afford to lose."
Abiodun slammed his fist on the table.
"And what if the key breaks the lock? What if he turns on us? Do we allow snakes in the house just because they know where other snakes sleep?"
Adégún's tone sharpened.
"The greatest trick the gods ever pulled was using dangerous tools to protect sacred truths. I serve Èṣù—not a god of softness or simplicity. If the trick is righteous, does it matter if it wears a thief's face?"
"And when the trick fails?" Ireti asked coldly. "What then?"
"Then I will burn the board myself."
His voice did not rise. But Aṣé crackled faintly in his words. A faint smell of sulfur curled into the room.
Chief Olabisi rubbed his chin, frowning.
"Do you understand the weight of what you've done? If Nri-Ulo demands recompense—"
"Let them," Adégún said. "I'll answer them personally."
A long, uncomfortable silence.
"Your pride may cost us," Ireti warned. "You say you see a tool. I see a knife that hasn't yet decided where to cut."
"Then we best give it a reason to cut for us."
There was no consensus—only silence and tension.
Finally, Chief Olabisi relented.
"We'll allow your plan to proceed, Adégún. For now. But if this 'key' turns, it'll be your neck beneath the blade."
"So be it," Adégún said, sitting back down. "Just make sure the rest of you are ready when the lock breaks."
The council continued into lesser matters—water rights, collapsing roads in the east, plague rumors in Kírun—but the storm had already cracked the sky.
As the voices of the council murmured and debated, Chief Ireti of Ọya remained still.
Her gaze fixed on Adégún like a hawk watches an oncoming fire.
And though her lips did not move, the wind around her whispered:
"I still don't trust you. Or your tricks."
…......
The sun had just begun to dip beneath the western ridge when the trio crested the final hill.
There it was—
Iburolẹ.
A city hemmed in by thick sandstone walls carved from the ochre-colored quarries of Ibọn-Ekun, polished smooth and veined with patterns of deep maroon clay. Each wall towered high, nearly thirty feet, lined at the top with azure flags bearing the sigil of Òṣun, goddess of beauty and craftsmanship, fluttering in a golden wind.
The gatehouse loomed ahead, flanked by four guards clad in brilliant segmented armor. Unlike the dull steel of soldiers in other cities, the Iburolẹ Guard wore lamellar plating lacquered in alternating hues—peacock green and sun-gold, with ivory inlays that shimmered like silk under the late sun. Embossed upon their breastplates was the symbol of their city: a loom bordered by a circle of seven stars.
Their helmets bore cascading tassels dyed in regional house colors, denoting which merchant family they were sworn to protect. This wasn't just a fashion statement—it was a declaration of civic pride and legacy.
The streets, once through the gates, were a marvel of crafted stone and ancestral investment.
Pavement stones here were no ordinary rock—they were slabs of river-smoothed granite, chiseled flat, dyed in faint pastel colors, and engraved with sigils of wealth and protection. At night, the paths came alive. Lamps powered by captured fireflies and low-grade Aṣé stones hovered gently in bronze cages above the walkways, casting a soft gold-and-lilac glow over the winding streets.
Every building was an artwork.
Walls painted with stylized murals depicting myth, conquest, and the gods' descent to earth. Awnings of richly embroidered cloth hung from every arch, catching the wind like sails. Gilded wind chimes tinkled from balcony edges, tuned to different pitches based on which god the house revered.
Crowds moved like rivers of color—shawls in emerald lace, turbans dyed with fermented camwood, robes dyed with the rare Obalọkùn blue, seen only in the deepest sanctums. The air was alive with the scent of boiling indigo, roasted corn, and crushed hibiscus.
Artisans filled the plazas, each with their own rhythm:
The hammering of woodblock stamps against cloth.
The swish of fabric being unraveled from a loom.
The melodic cries of street weavers auctioning last-minute tapestries before dusk.
Even the city's beggars wore dignity, wrapping themselves in scraps patterned with meaningful color. No one was without symbolism in Iburolẹ. It was a city of pride and perception.
The group moved cautiously.
Zahra's flame-washed hair had been tied back and hidden beneath a traveler's hood, while Omo wore a light-reflecting cloak scavenged from an Iron King ruin—shifting and neutral, making her form harder to track. Chizoba moved with his usual stillness, drawing no more attention than a shadow near a streetlamp.
Their prisoner, Ife, was gagged and hooded, wrapped in common fabric and led like a luggage cart through the crowd. No one gave them more than a passing glance. Iburolẹ was a city of trade and secrets—smuggling wasn't shocking, just inconvenient.
They stopped at a narrow shop squeezed between a gourd-dye apothecary and a tailor's academy. A sign embroidered with gold thread read:
"Threads of Glory – Royal Grade Retail"
It was a modest name for an establishment known among inner circles as a safehouse for those who trafficked in whispered truths and delicate bloodshed.
Inside, the shop smelled of aged cloth, fragrant cedar, and the subtle tinge of alchemical dye. The walls were stacked to the ceiling with bolts of fabric: ceremonial silks, warriors' mantles, and soft cottons infused with minor enchantments.
Behind the counter sat an older woman with skin like sun-baked clay and eyes like obsidian mirrors. She did not smile when they entered. She kept folding fabric, a needle tucked behind one ear, her hands working with ancestral precision.
She didn't speak until Chizoba stepped forward.
"Orun dances only when Oya's wind hums right."
The woman's hands paused mid-fold.
She reached beneath the counter, behind a curtain of woven yellow lace, and pulled a brass lever with quiet decisiveness. A section of the rear shelving slid open, revealing a narrow stairway that dropped into darkness, steep and winding.
"Don't make too much noise down there," she muttered. "The neighbors are suspicious, and I don't like explaining bloodstains to inspectors."
They descended without delay, the sounds of the city above muffled almost immediately.
The basement floor was much more than a cellar—it was a labyrinth. The walls were reinforced with sound-dampening cloth sewn with sacred threads. The air was cool, dry, and thick with the scent of preservation herbs—bitter leaf, kola nut dust, and a hint of crushed peppercorn.
Floating lanterns powered by minor Aṣé cores hovered in geometric patterns, creating pools of amber light. There were no candles, no torches. This was a priest's workroom, and Adégún—the Chief Priest of Èṣù—did not deal in things so obvious as flame.
The central room bore a table carved from onyxwood, its surface etched with moving runes—constantly shifting between maps, celestial charts, and surveillance sigils. Papers lay scattered with hand-inked notes on Riftborn activity, while an Iron King artifact shaped like a compass with a cracked lens ticked slowly in the corner.
One room housed cots and healing salves. Another bore weapon racks with weapons labeled in old Sangoan. A third room, smaller and dimmer, held a reinforced steel chair surrounded by red chalk lines—clearly meant for interrogation.
Zahra shoved Ife into the seat and tied her down.
"You better be worth the chase," she muttered, wiping her forehead and flicking away sweat with a burst of fire.
Omo scanned the room using her augmented goggles, eyes flickering behind the glass. "No Riftborn signals within a kilometer."
Chizoba lowered himself onto a bench near the wall, rubbing his wrists. The city's light no longer reached him, but here, in this secret place, he finally allowed the fatigue to touch his shoulders.
Zahra crossed her arms, gazing at the dim ceiling.
"So this is the great hideout of the Trickster's Dog," she said, referring to Adégún, Chief Priest of Èṣù.
"Elegant, for a man who throws chaos like it's water."
Chizoba didn't even lift his eyes.
"It's safe."
Omo removed her gauntlets and smiled faintly. "Safe enough."
For now, they had Ife.
And through her, perhaps—just perhaps—the beginning of the end for the Riftborn.