The palace grounds were quieter than usual. Rumors moved like harmattan wind dry, swift, and impossible to grasp. Prince Nwabueze, once the pride of the kingdom, had not stepped out of his chambers in weeks. The laughter that once danced in the courtyards had withered into a hush of uncertainty and mourning.
Outside his chamber, Uzoaru sat on a woven mat, her back straight, eyes clouded with worry. The prince's ailment had puzzled the best healers in Abiriba. His skin burned at night like hot coals; by day, he lay drenched in cold sweats, speaking in riddles that frightened even the wisest elders.
Uzoaru hadn't left his side except to fetch herbs, speak with the royal seer, or pray beneath the ancient Iroko tree near the market square. Her loyalty had become the talk of the village. Some mocked her persistence. Others called it love. She didn't care.
The king's voice summoned her the next morning. His eyes, tired but clear, searched her face.
"My daughter, this affliction… it is not of this world. The prince's burden comes from disobedience to our sacred traditions. He rejected the rite of passage, mocked the spirits. Now they have answered."
Uzoaru remained still.
"The seer has spoken," the king continued. "There is one path left. A journey. Long, dangerous, through the lands of Ọnụ Iyi and beyond the hills of Arochukwu. You will carry a gourd. Inside, a chant. You will be fortified. But if you agree to go, know this—you may never return."
The room grew heavier. A breath, a heartbeat, a storm of silence.
"I will go," Uzoaru said.
She did not blink.
That night, the seer bathed her in palm oil and river salt. The incantations echoed into the forest. The spirits of protection were summoned, old gods of Abiriba whispered their watch. A charm was fastened around her neck—Ụkpọ n'obi—a protection stone tied with red thread. It burned her skin lightly, marking her as the chosen one.
At dawn, she stood before the palace gates, a leather satchel across her shoulder, her gourd sealed in white cloth, her heart heavy yet determined.
As she took her first step toward the unknown, far beyond the red clay walls of home, a shadow watched her from a distance.
It was Nwanne.
Jealousy, rage, and something darker brewed in her chest. Uzoaru had been chosen. Again. But she, Nwanne, would not be left behind.
To be continued in Chapter 3: The Forbidden Path