The night Nkosana was born, the moon bled red over the hills of Nsindane village. The old women spat into the fire and whispered prayers under their breath. Even the wind seemed afraid to stir.
Inside a small rondavel at the edge of the maize fields, cries of labor filled the air. Thandiwe, a quiet woman known for speaking to birds, clutched her swollen belly as the midwife barked orders. But when the baby arrived, silence fell like a heavy cloth.
He didn't cry.
Not a whimper. Not a gasp.
Just... silence.
The midwife looked at the child, her hands trembling. His eyes were open—wide, black as coal, and unblinking. The fire dimmed. A rooster outside let out a scream and dropped dead.
Thandiwe named him *Nkosana*, meaning "little king." But many whispered it should've been *Umnyama*—The Darkness.
***
Fifteen years later, Thuli sat on a crooked rock behind the schoolyard, sketching. She didn't draw flowers or houses like other girls. She drew faces—faces from her dreams. Ones with too many eyes, stitched mouths, and hollow expressions.
Lately, they were all starting to look like one person.
Nkosana.
He sat alone. Always. No one dared get too close. Birds still wouldn't land near him. Even dogs growled low when he passed.
And yet Thuli couldn't look away. Not because of fear—but because every time she glanced into his strange, obsidian eyes...
she heard *whispers.*
They called her name.
Last night, she saw him in a dream, standing in a forest of bones, calling her forward with a bleeding hand.
And when she woke up—her hand was bleeding too.
Today, she was going to speak to him.
Even if it meant waking something that should've stayed sleeping.