The journey to the capital had ended not with relief, but with a suffocating embrace.
The reek of Ọ̀yọ́-Ìlú wrapped around them like a damp funeral cloth—thick, humid, and unwilling to let go. The once-proud city now exhaled the breath of rot. Gone was the crisp scent of mountain mist; here, the air was a pungent mosaic of stale egusi broth, the acrid tang of cheap palm wine from fermenting sapodilla fruit, the char of goat hide, and the faint, coppery scent of old blood that never seemed to wash away.
Smoke curled from iron cauldrons in alleyways where vendors cooked meat of questionable origin. Hollow-eyed children with faces painted in white chalk darted between stalls, their hands as fast and silent as whispers. From a packed-earth courtyard, a batá drummer tapped out a frantic, complex rhythm for a masked dancer half-mad with spirits, the beat ricocheting off the stone walls like a frantic heartbeat.
Leonotis, Jacqueline, Low, and Zombiel slipped into the city's depths like wraiths, hugging the mud-slick backs of crumbling shrines.
The great city no longer cared for symmetry; its arteries were clogged with collapsing compounds, spirit-haunted gutters, and alleys that sang with the croak of frogs and the sound of curses.
Hunched beneath his badger fur cloak, Leonotis felt painfully visible. The thick fur, meant to be a comforting disguise, was a foreign touch that screamed outsider more than they had realized.
He hated it. Every sound seemed amplified, a betrayal of the silence they so desperately needed. The soft clink of the charms woven into Zombiel's tunic, the faint clatter of Low's throwing rocks shifting in their pouch, even the swish of Jacqueline's hair brushing her scarf—it all grated on his nerves.
A group of egungun masqueraders passed them, their towering, cloth-draped forms swaying like ancestral ghosts called forth for judgment. No one dared look them in the eye, not even the city guardsmen who hastily averted their gaze. The city still feared its Orishas, even if its king no longer did.
They passed beneath the arch of an old Orisha shrine where someone had scrawled a warning in what looked disturbingly like dried blood:
"Ọrun is watching. Your time is not your own."
Jacqueline whispered a curse in her melodic native tongue. Zombiel, seeing the grim words, let out a soft, dry laugh.
"Is anyone else questioning the strategic value of badger?" Leonotis grumbled, fingers tugging at the itchy collar. "We're supposed to be ghosts. I think even the smell of this thing is starting to stand out."
Zombiel, amused, gave a rare, toothy grin. "And you do smell dominant."
Leonotis ignored him. Every sideways glance from a grime-streaked urchin felt like the prelude to a pointing finger and a shout of, "That's him! The fugitive plant aseweaver!"
Jacqueline pressed a hand gently on his shoulder. "Keep your head down," she whispered. "You're drawing more attention than a talking tree."
They turned down a quieter path lined with broken pots half-buried in rainwater. A faded mural on a wall showed Òṣóòsi the hunter-god, his bow drawn—but someone had defaced the god's mouth with crude red paint and scrawled the word "LIAR" beneath it.
"Don't look up," Low whispered, her amber eyes scanning the rooftops.
A beggar in tattered blue robes hobbled past, his hand outstretched. He paused near Leonotis, sniffed the air dramatically, and cackled, a broken sound.
"The wind has brought strange leaves to this place. Careful, o strangers. This city eats what it cannot name."
Leonotis watched the man shuffle off into the crowd. "Even their madmen speak in riddles."
"No," Jacqueline said quietly, pulling her scarf tighter around her face. "That one made perfect sense."
Beside her, Low navigated the filth with a low, predatory grace, her senses vibrating with alertness. As they jostled through the throng near a fish stall, a large, imposing figure with shoulders like a seasoned ox brushed past them.
His face was rough-hewn, his eyes a startling, intelligent amber. His gaze flickered over the others but lingered for a charged fraction of a second on Low.
An almost imperceptible tension seemed to pass beneath his weathered skin. He offered no word, simply continued on his way—but not before a flicker of something crossed his features. Recognition? Kinship?
Low instinctively turned, watching him disappear into the swirling crowd. The encounter sent a strange prickle down her spine. She couldn't place the feeling, but she committed his face to memory. Just in case.
Leonotis, having missed the silent exchange, was still preoccupied.
"I'm fairly certain this cloak is actively attracting fleas."
Low snorted, snapping her attention back. "Welcome to the beating heart of civilization, Leaf-Shaper. Perfume is extra."
Jacqueline halted them at a chaotic intersection where several alleys twisted together.
"It would be wise to split up," she suggested, her voice low and urgent. "Traveling as a quartet makes us far too conspicuous, especially considering Leonotis's current notoriety."
Leonotis winced. "My aura is usually described as 'refreshingly verdant'."
"And currently 'worth a small fortune to the Crown'," Jacqueline countered dryly. "Low, your… intensity… tends to attract notice even without a price on your head."
Low's jaw tightened, but she gave a curt nod. "Fine. Zombiel and I will manage. But if anyone lays a finger on the greenling," she shot Leonotis a fierce look, "they'll answer to my less human side."
"I'll be stealthy!" Leonotis protested, pulling the badger-scented hood lower. "Like moss growing on a forgotten stone!"
"I need to make discreet inquiries about southward transport," Jacqueline continued, refolding her battered map. "I'll head east, towards the merchant quarter. Low, you and Zombiel take the western path to the Grand Library. Leonotis, you stick to the deepest shadows—approach from the north, through the old tanner's district. We meet inside the main reading hall of the Grand Library before nightfall. Agreed?"
A series of hushed, reluctant affirmatives followed.
"Remember," Jacqueline stressed, her sharp blue eyes locking onto each of theirs, "no unnecessary risks. Information and extraction are the priorities. Avoid the City Watch."
With final, wary glances, the four companions separated.
Each became a solitary figure swallowed by the city's grimy underbelly—a single prayer against the capital's hungry silence, hoping to reach the sanctuary of knowledge before darkness, and the King's men, closed in.
Later...
Leaving the others to their own paths, Leonotis slipped deeper into the northern alleys, moving with a silence born of recent necessity.
The tanner's district was a place of powerful, eye-watering stenches—curing hides, harsh chemicals, and old rot—that thankfully overwhelmed the distinctive forest scent of his badger cloak.
Finding a smoldering fire pit behind a leather-worker's stall, he peeled off the heavy fur and tossed it into the embers without a second thought, watching with grim satisfaction as the edges curled and blackened.
He was a ghost now, and ghosts didn't need comforting warmth.
The heat from the fire clashed with the thick, wet air rolling in from the mangrove-lined river that wound through this older quarter of Ọ̀yọ́-Ìlú.
Here, the buildings leaned like gossiping elders, their ochre clay walls etched with centuries of prayer-marks and the deep scars of rainwear.
Drawn by a pull he couldn't name—a need for stillness amidst the city's cacophony—he made his way to the Temple of the Still Waters.
It was not the largest shrine in the city, but it was the oldest.
It stood half-sunken in a stone hollow, its steps slick with moss and always cool to the touch. He descended into its quiet embrace.
Murals of Yemoja, the mother of all waters, curved along the inner dome, her serene face watching over the painted forms of fish, serpents, and infant spirits she cradled in her arms.
The air inside hung thick with the scent of lotus blossom, shea oil, and the faint, clean mineral trace of sacred springwater.
A low, pulsing chant reverberated through the chamber, not sung aloud, but breathed—an ancient rhythm of protection that seemed to emanate from the very stones.
Braziers of heated river rocks steamed at the four corners, releasing a medicinal dampness into the space.
Leonotis slowed his breathing, the city's grime feeling like a desecration on his skin.
This was sacred ground. A place where one did not lie—especially to oneself.
He approached the central pool, its surface glass-smooth and scattered with lily pads.
An acolyte knelt beside it, dressed in layered indigo robes, his shaven head bowed as he adjusted the petals of a floating blossom.
His fingers moved with such precision it felt like he was speaking a language only the water understood.
"Peace of the waters be upon you," Leonotis said gently, his voice more hoarse than he expected.
The acolyte did not look up, but his hand stilled.
"And upon you, stranger," he replied in the ancient form, his voice a low, measured baritone with an accent from the southern reaches.
Leonotis stepped closer. "I seek Chinakah, a healer. I was told she sometimes visits here."
The acolyte paused, finally looking up. His eyes were calm and impossibly old.
"Chinakah. Yes, she was here tending to the fever-sick… perhaps three or four weeks ago."
Hope flickered in Leonotis's chest, sharp and bright, only to be instantly extinguished as the acolyte continued.
"She mentioned receiving a summons from the palace. An audience with the King, I believe."
The King.
A knot of ice formed in Leonotis's stomach. "An audience? Has she returned since?"
The acolyte shook his head slowly, a deep sadness in his eyes. "We have not seen her. We pray for her well-being."
Leonotis offered polite thanks, his mind racing.
First Gethii, now Chinakah—both summoned to the King weeks ago, neither seen since.
He retreated from the temple's tranquility, the city's oppressive anxiety crashing back in on him.
He made his way towards the looming silhouette of the royal palace, its formidable defenses a testament to the King's power.
Soaring granite walls, gates bristling with guards in polished armor—even the servants' entrances looked impenetrable. Getting inside seemed impossible.
Seeking refuge from the midday sun and hoping for loose talk, he ducked into a dimly lit armorer's shop nearby.
The rhythmic clang of hammer on steel was a deafening, steady heartbeat. The air hung heavy with the scent of oil and hot metal, sparks flashing like fireflies around a soot-streaked forge.
Two travel-stained soldiers leaned against the counter, grumbling to the stout woman sharpening a sword on a whetstone.
"Pointless," one complained, his voice sour. "Dragging the King's Elites halfway across the realm to the Dark Forest for some ghost story about Dryads."
"Leaving the city undermanned, that's what it is," the other added, wiping his brow.
The armorer—broad-shouldered and powerful, with a name tag etched into her breastplate reading Simone—didn't miss a beat.
"The King commands, you obey," she said, her voice sharp as a freshly honed blade. "Are you buying anything else, or just complaining on my time?"
The soldiers muttered something about "smiths with tongues like whips" and paid for their repairs before trudging out into the blinding daylight. The door creaked closed behind them, leaving only the echo of the hammer and the smell of iron in the air.
Leonotis exhaled quietly and approached the counter.
"Mistress Simone," he began, keeping his voice low and even. "Forgive my intrusion, but I overheard talk of the King's forces."
Simone looked up, sizing him with shrewd, intelligent eyes—eyes that had seen too many lies to believe in coincidences.
"Aye. The King's got a taste for an expensive hunting trip," she said. "What's it to you, lad?"
"I'm looking for someone," Leonotis said, deciding honesty might open doors faster than deception. "A master swordsman, tall, powerfully built… missing his left arm. Perhaps you've seen him?"
Simone's work paused mid-stroke. Recognition flickered in her gaze.
"One arm?" she asked quietly. "You mean Gethii. How do you know him?"
Leonotis's heart leaped. "He's my master—my guardian. Have you seen him?"
Simone nodded grimly toward the street. "Came through here weeks back. Said he was going straight to the King. Had his truck and gear parked right out back."
Her brow furrowed, and she leaned closer, lowering her voice to a whisper roughened by forge smoke.
"Funny thing, that," she muttered. "He never came back for the truck. A man like Gethii doesn't misplace his shadow, let alone his entire kit. Felt wrong."
The knot of ice in Leonotis's gut solidified into a cold, immovable stone.
"To the King? You're certain?"
"That's what the man said," Simone confirmed. "Haven't seen hide nor hair of him since."
"Thank you," Leonotis whispered, turning to leave, his mind reeling.
"Hold on, lad."
She reached beneath the counter and produced two items wrapped in a length of linen. "If you're his student, these are yours. Gethii left them. Made me promise—if he didn't return for his truck in a timely manner, I was to hand them to a young man matching your description. Said you'd need to be ready."
She unwrapped the cloth carefully. One item was a wooden practice sword—a perfect replica of Gethii's famed blade. Beside it lay a warrior's toga in dark green, its leather fastenings still smelling faintly of cedar oil.
Leonotis stared at them, throat tightening. It was a message. A warning. A final lesson.
"Thank you, Simone," he said softly. "Thank you."
He gathered the gifts, bowed, and turned toward the door.
As the door swung shut behind him, Simone lingered in silence.
From the far corner of the workshop, where shadow met firelight, a figure stirred—a slender woman draped in a traveler's shawl of ochre and gray, her hair woven with strings of dull copper beads. She'd been there the whole time, seated in the half-dark, watching the exchange through a lattice of hanging chainmail.
Her eyes were faintly luminous, reflecting the forge's glow like twin coins sinking in deep water.
"Gethii's student," she murmured, her voice calm, curious—like someone recalling a dream they weren't supposed to remember. "That legendary fighter had taken another student."
Simone didn't look at her. "You could've spoken, Zola. He seems friendly enough."
Zola's lips curved into a faint, knowing smile. "Not yet. If he's here than he must be here for the tournament. We'll meet in the arena."
She rose without another word, moving past the brazier with the slow, effortless grace of smoke. The hammering resumed in the background, steady and relentless, drowning her footsteps as she slipped out the back door and vanished into the sunlight.
Simone sighed, muttering to herself. "That woman's going to bring the storm early."
Outside, Leonotis hurried through the street unaware that a storm already walked in his shadow.