The air beneath the textile shop was heavy with the scent of dust, old fabric, and oiled iron. The stone walls were thick and cool to the touch, lit by muted golden lamps that flickered from the Aṣé-infused wicks embedded within them. A large circular table stood at the center of the room, cluttered with maps, rations, and weapons laid out for cleaning. Wooden crates stacked to the ceiling held bolts of common cloth—disguising this war room beneath the friendly façade of a humble fabric shop above.
Outside, the city of Iburolẹ was on edge, rumors of the Riftborn beginning to burn like dry cloth in harmattan. But here, silence reigned… save for the low, rhythmic breathing of Chizoba.
He sat cross-legged on a woven mat in a corner of the room, shirtless and bruised, his palms resting lightly on his knees. Faint blue light shimmered beneath his skin—his Chi pulsing through muscle and bone like rivers of willpower. Across his torso, wounds that should've torn deeper were knitting themselves shut with almost surgical precision. You could see flesh reform. Veins reconnect. His body was rebuilding itself from sheer force of discipline.
"That was stupid," Omo snapped, pacing back and forth near the far wall, her voice still tight from adrenaline.
She slapped a glowing tablet into her palm, eyes scanning it for any new alerts from her visor network. "Absolutely stupid. You don't just walk into a dead zone, grab a Riftborn ledger, blow a hole in the wall, and run into a junk wasteland full of hostiles without a plan!"
Chizoba said nothing.
He didn't need to. The focused hum of his Chi answered for him, a low harmonic buzz that filled the room like the memory of thunder.
Omo growled under her breath, folding her arms. "I swear, one of these days, I'm letting you get killed just so I can say 'I told you so.'"
Zahra watched in quiet awe from the nearby couch, arms folded but eyes narrowing with curiosity. The cuts across her own arms had been bandaged; her flames had done their damage and faded. But Chizoba? He was something else.
"…You're healing yourself," she finally said.
Her voice was soft but edged with something more—uncertainty, maybe even fear.
Chizoba exhaled slowly and opened his eyes, his irises glowing like slow lightning behind glass. "Yes," he said simply.
Zahra leaned forward, brow furrowed. "How? That's advanced Chi manipulation. Not even High Temple monks are capable of healing muscle and tendon like that on the fly. Where'd you learn that?"
"My father taught me."
That made Zahra blink. She sat back slightly. "He must have been a great healer."
Chizoba's fingers curled into his knee slightly. He shook his head.
"He wasn't a healer," he said, voice low. "He was a warrior."
Zahra looked visibly confused. "Warriors don't heal themselves. They break things. Only dedicated healers—trained channelers of Chi or Aṣé—can do that kind of regeneration."
Chizoba's face darkened with thought. But he said nothing, focusing again on his breathing. The energy around him deepened—slow, precise, undisturbed by conversation.
Zahra narrowed her eyes. "Hey—hey, I asked you a question."
Chizoba didn't answer.
Zahra threw up her hands in exasperation and turned to Omo, who shrugged like it wasn't the first time Chizoba had just… gone silent.
"Don't take it personal," Omo said. "He's got more secrets than some of my machines."
Zahra let out a sigh and turned her attention to the prisoner chained to a chair at the far end of the room.
Ife.
She sat quietly, wrists bound with a coil of Aṣé-threaded cloth, her once-pristine white robes now stained and torn. Her face bore signs of the skirmish—a bruise along her cheekbone, blood dried at the lip—but her eyes remained sharp, analytical. She didn't look like a victim. She looked like a fanatic waiting for her next command.
"Time to talk," Zahra said.
She placed the half-burned logbook on the table between them and flicked it open. The pages were torn down the middle, the fire from the Collector's last grab having reduced many of them to smoldering curls. Still, some ink remained.
Scrawled names. Coordinates. Hand-drawn maps in a strange cipher.
Omo leaned over Zahra's shoulder, activating her Ember Visor to scan the page. "This ledger's full of names... hideouts... some old Riftborn operatives who were declared dead years ago."
"Look," Zahra said, pointing to a sigil near the bottom of the page. "That's the symbol of the Shrine of Broken Unity. That's deep inside Nri-Ulo."
Chizoba's eyes flicked open again, the glow in his veins dimming slightly.
Omo tapped on the map. "And here. This one's in Orun-Saa. Near the old emberglass refineries outside Odo-Igbo. They're all over the place."
"But the rest of the data," Zahra muttered, flipping more pages with frustration, "the bulk of the records—the supply routes, the leadership structures, the cell meeting codes—it's all in the other half."
"The one the Collector vaporized," Omo finished bitterly.
They all went silent for a moment. The scope of what they could have uncovered versus what they had now felt like a cruel joke.
"What you have there," Ife finally said, her voice quiet but cold, "is a tomb of echoes. It'll lead you to death, not answers."
Zahra gave her a look that could melt metal. "Then you'd better start talking before we find out whether you echo."
Ife smiled—just faintly. And then she said nothing more.
The hidden chamber was dimly lit now—only a few of the ember-wick lanterns flickered along the stone walls. The once-buzzing tension had faded into something quieter. Wearier.
Chizoba sat near the far corner, his breathing slow, his Chi now fully drawn inward, its radiance no longer visible. His body was healed. But his mind had drifted somewhere far—somewhere deeper than wounds or war.
Across the room, Zahra stood by the stairwell, her arms folded and her twin curved daggers strapped to her thighs. Her gear was clean. Her expression unreadable.
Omo glanced up from her datapad, raising a brow. "You're geared up."
Zahra nodded. "I'm leaving."
Omo blinked. "Wait—what?"
Zahra looked over at Chizoba, then to Omo. "I got what I came for. The Riftborn who betrayed my squad is dead. The Collector is finished. My flames burned for vengeance… and they've cooled now."
"But…" Omo stepped forward, arms falling to her side. "We could use you. We've only just cracked the logbook. There's still a whole network out there. You're strong, tactical, fast. We—"
"I know what I am," Zahra cut in gently.
There was no harshness in her tone, only a tired certainty. "But I'm not like you two. I work best alone. Always have. Always will."
"You helped us," Omo said, frustrated. "You saved our asses more than once."
Zahra smirked. "And I'll do it again… when the time is right. When I choose to. Not as a part of some cause or prophecy or mad plan to take on gods."
She reached into her satchel and pulled out a small carved flame-totem—the insignia of her lost warband. She placed it gently on the table, beside the torn ledger.
"A marker," she said. "If you ever need me again, burn this. I'll find you."
Omo hesitated, then stepped forward, her voice soft. "You sure?"
Zahra turned her gaze back to Chizoba, who remained in his meditative trance. His body was still, but she could feel the weight in his silence—like lightning waiting to strike.
"He'll do what needs doing," Zahra said quietly. "And you… you've got the kind of fire no Aṣé can manufacture. You'll make a difference, Omo. Just not with me."
And with that, she ascended the steps, cloak fluttering like flame trailing smoke. Her footsteps vanished into the shop above, and by the time Omo followed to the edge of the stairwell, Zahra was already gone—another shadow in the restless streets of Iburolẹ.
Down below, silence stretched.
Omo exhaled and turned toward Ife, who still sat bound to the heavy iron chair. The Riftborn woman hadn't moved much—hadn't spoken since her cryptic warning earlier. Her face was drawn tight with scorn, her chin high even in captivity.
Omo approached and leaned on the edge of the table. "You know we're going to find them anyway," she said, flipping the logbook closed. "With or without your help. You could make this easier—for yourself."
Ife stared straight ahead, unblinking.
Omo's voice lowered. "You saw what Chizoba did out there. What I can do. We're not tourists. We're coming for the rest of your kind. Talk."
Still, Ife said nothing. Her eyes narrowed slightly… but her silence remained ironclad.
Omo sighed and stepped back. "Fine. Stay quiet. We'll make noise for you."
Chizoba finally opened his eyes.
The glow was gone now, his body fully recovered, though the strain of battle still lingered in the fine tension of his shoulders. He stood slowly, the mat beneath him crinkling as he rose like a shadow returning to its height.
He didn't speak—not yet. His gaze simply scanned the room.
Omo looked at him from across the table, arms crossed. "She's gone," she said.
Chizoba nodded slowly. He had felt Zahra's departure like a flame winking out in the distance.
"Now it's just us," Omo muttered.
She pulled the logbook closer and activated her visor. "Time to chase ghosts."