The roar for Grom Stonehand's brutal victory still echoed in the stone bones of the coliseum when the herald's voice rose again, cutting through the fading cheers with a new and different resonance. A hush fell over the stands, a sudden, expectant silence that was more telling than any shout. The previous bouts had been clashes of power and strength; the crowd knew this next one was to be a display of artistry.
"From the western isles, the dancer of the inverted sun—Zola of the Light!"
Zola flowed into the arena like a ripple of pure light. She didn't walk; she glided, a broad, joyful smile on her face as she waved to the cheering spectators. Her energy was infectious, a radiant warmth that seemed to push back against the harsh glare of the desert sun. She moved to the center of the sand, her every step a note in a song only she could hear, and settled into a low, graceful crouch.
"And her opponent," the herald continued, his voice taking on a strange, almost whimsical lilt, "a traveler of crossroads and whispers—Hadririya Kinya, the Unforeseen!"
The man who stepped from the opposite gate was Zola's perfect antithesis. Where she was fluid, he was disjointed. Where she was radiant, he was a collection of muted, mismatched colors. He was lean and wiry, dressed in a patchwork tunic of dull greens and dusty browns. A single, gaudy parrot feather was tucked behind one ear, and an ornate silver ring adorned one finger while a crude copper wire was wrapped around another. He moved with a jerky, unpredictable gait, and the smile on his face wasn't joyful; it was a knowing, unsettling smirk, as though he were privy to a joke the rest of the world had yet to hear.
Leonotis, still hyper-aware of Amara's presence beside him, felt a genuine smile touch his own lips as Zola entered. Her bright spirit was a welcome antidote to the grimness of the tournament. "She looks ready," he said, his voice quiet.
Adebayo nodded, his arms crossed. "She is always ready. Her àṣẹ is as much a part of her as her own breath. This should be a beautiful match to watch."
But as Hadririya Kinya took his position, Amara's serene expression tightened ever so slightly. She leaned a fraction closer to Leonotis, her voice a low murmur meant only for him. "Be wary of men who walk without a rhythm. They often serve a god who thrives on breaking it."
Leonotis looked at her, puzzled, but before he could ask what she meant, Jabara's hand fell, and the duel began.
It started as a masterpiece. Zola exploded into motion, a whirlwind of grace and power. Her Engolo was breathtaking, a continuous, flowing dance of cartwheels, handstands, and spinning kicks. Her light àṣẹ shimmered around her limbs, leaving faint trails of gold in the air, a physical manifestation of her joy in movement.
Hadririya, by contrast, barely seemed to be fighting at all. He didn't block or parry in any traditional sense. He simply… moved. When Zola launched a sweeping kick that should have taken his legs out from under him, he was already taking a half-step back, causing her foot to slice through empty air. When she spun into an inverted heel strike aimed at his head, he would stumble on a seemingly random patch of sand, his body falling out of the way a split second before the blow would have connected.
Her every perfect attack missed by a hair's breadth. The beautiful duel was becoming a frustrating monologue.
"Her form is flawless," Adebayo said, his brow furrowed in deep concentration. "Her timing is impeccable. By all rights, she should have landed a dozen strikes by now. It is… uncanny."
"It's more than uncanny," Leonotis whispered, his own àṣẹ sensing the strange wrongness in the air. He could feel Hadririya's power, but it wasn't a shield or a weapon. It was a slippery, invisible current that seemed to warp the space around Zola. "It feels like the world itself is shifting against her."
"That is precisely what is happening," Amara confirmed, her voice grim. The other two turned to look at her. "His àṣẹ does not strike her, nor does it form a barrier. It nudges fate. A loose stone, a sudden gust of wind, a bead of sweat in the eye at the exact wrong moment. He is a Child of Eshu, the Trickster. His power is misfortune."
The word hung in the air, cold and sharp. As if to prove her point, Zola launched herself into a spectacular back handspring, intending to use the wall to propel herself into a devastating kick. But as her hands planted, her palm slid on a patch of sand that was inexplicably damp, stealing her momentum. She recovered with a stumble, her grace momentarily shattered. Hadririya's unsettling smirk widened.
The playful dance was over. The duel began to turn dark.
Hadririya stopped merely evading. Now, every time Zola was thrown off balance by a stroke of ill fortune, he would strike. His attacks weren't powerful, but they were viciously precise. A sharp kick to the ankle as she slipped. A jab with his knuckles into the joint of her elbow as she corrected her balance. He wasn't trying to win; he was trying to dismantle her, piece by painful piece.
The beautiful song of the fight became a discordant, ugly noise. The crowd's cheers faltered, replaced by uneasy murmurs.
"This is not honorable," Adebayo growled, his hands clenched into fists. "He fights like a jackal, waiting for the lioness to stumble."
Leonotis felt a cold dread creep into his chest. He watched, horrified, as Zola, the radiant dancer, was forced into a clumsy, painful struggle against an enemy she couldn't hit and a world that had suddenly turned against her. A strap on her sandal, perfectly secure moments before, suddenly came loose, nearly tripping her. Hadririya used the opening to land a playful blow to her thigh.
"Be serious and fight back!" Zola hissed, her smile long gone, replaced by a mask of pained frustration.
"Oh, but I am," Hadririya replied, his voice a sing-song taunt. "I am letting you fight yourself. And you are losing."
He was right. Zola's bright àṣẹ was beginning to flicker, her movements becoming more ragged as pain and frustration took their toll. She pushed off for a spinning kick, a move she could do in her sleep, but her footing gave way on the treacherous sand. As she fell, her leg twisted awkwardly beneath her.
Hadririya moved in like a striking serpent.
He brought his heel down in a sharp, brutal stomp directly onto her exposed knee.
A sickening crack echoed through the stunned silence of the arena.
Zola screamed. It was a sound of pure, unadulterated agony that tore through every spectator, a sound that ripped the last vestiges of sport from the match, leaving only its brutal reality. She crumpled to the ground, clutching her leg, her face pale with shock and excruciating pain.
Leonotis shot to his feet, a protective roar building in his throat. He felt the vines under his skin surge, a furious, instinctual command to erupt from the ground and tear the smirking trickster apart. Amara's hand shot out, her grip surprisingly strong on his arm. "Do not," she commanded, her voice a sharp, low warning. "This is her fight to finish."
He looked at her, his vision blurred with rage, but her steady, insistent gaze held him in place.
In the arena, Hadririya Kinya began to walk a slow, victorious circle around the fallen Zola, savoring the moment. The crowd was split. Half silent, horrified half shouting for him to finish her. He had won. All that was left was to force her to yield or deliver a final, brutal blow. He raised his foot, preparing to stomp again, this time on her arm.
"Stop…" Zola gasped from the sand, her voice trembling with pain.
Hadririya paused, his smirk a mask of poison. "Yield, little dancer. Your song is over."
On the ground, Zola looked at her ruined leg, at the jeering face of her opponent, at the silent, watching crowd. Tears of pain and fury welled in her eyes. Everything in her screamed to give up, to let the darkness take the pain away.
Desperate, she whispered a prayer through clenched teeth, her breath shaking. But the prayer was not to her own patron Orisha but his."Eshu… I know your power is the kind that twists fate, the kind people call luck. But luck has never once carried me anywhere in this life. I have walked every step by force of will alone. So if your blessing is to bring me bad luck today—fine. I'll carve a path through it myself."
Her àṣẹ was light. And light does not surrender.
Fueled by a surge of pure, defiant will, she pushed the pain away. She channeled every last flicker of her power, not into a shield, but into a single, desperate act of creation.
"My song," she gritted, voice frayed and trembling, "is not over until I say it is."
As Hadririya took his final step forward, bringing his foot down for the crippling blow, Zola moved. With a scream that was equal parts agony and war cry, she pushed off her hands. Ignoring the fire in her shattered knee, she used her one good leg to launch herself upward from the ground in a last-ditch, inverted kick.
It was a move born of nothing but spirit. A single, blazing prayer against the encroaching night.
The blow connected.
Her heel, glowing with the last of her golden light, slammed squarely into Hadririya's chin. His head snapped back with a sickening crack. The smirk vanished from his face, replaced by a look of pure, blank shock. His eyes rolled back in his head, and he staggered backward, dazed and unseeing, before collapsing onto the sand like a puppet with its strings cut.
Zola fell back, her body finally succumbing to the agony, her vision turning grey at the edges.
The arena remained silent for three long heartbeats.
Then Jabara's voice, heavy with a mixture of sorrow and profound respect, boomed across the sands.
"The challenger is unable to continue! The victor… is Zola of the Light!"
The crowd erupted. It wasn't a cheer of bloodlust or celebration, but a raw, emotional roar of respect for the sheer, unbreakable will they had just witnessed. Healers were already sprinting into the ring, their faces grim as they surrounded Zola, her radiant light now just a faint, flickering ember.
The victory was hers, but the cost was devastating. The song of light had been answered, but it had ended on a broken note. Adebayo was already on his feet, his face a mask of cold fury as he headed for the tunnel. Amara watched the healers with a somber expression.
Leonotis sank back onto the bench, his own rage replaced by a hollow ache. He had seen beauty twisted into cruelty, a vibrant light nearly extinguished by a creeping, petty darkness. The tournament was no longer a trial of skill or a path to his family. It was a crucible, designed to break even the brightest spirits. And looking at Zola's broken form being carefully lifted onto a stretcher, he felt a cold certainty settle in his heart: not everyone would survive it.
In the shaded royal balcony, King Rega did not rise with the roaring crowd. He sat perfectly still, jaw clenched, his fingers drumming once against the arm of his stone throne. The cheers washed over him like distant surf—loud, chaotic, and ultimately meaningless.
Beside him, Kenya, the taller of his two bodyguards, exhaled a low whistle."That girl fought with the heart of a lioness," she said, shaking her head. "Broken leg and still dancing. I've never seen anything like it."
On the king's other side, Zuri leaned forward, eyes narrowed, studying the arena with the icy focus of a seasoned hunter."Hadririya fought like a rat," he muttered. "A rat blessed by Eshu, but still a rat. No honor in those tricks of his."
Kenya smirked. "Since when has Eshu ever cared about honor?"
Zuri shot her a sidelong look. "Since never. That's my point."
King Rega's fingers paused their drumming."Enough," he said, voice low but heavy. "Watch the girl."
All three gazes dropped to Zola's crumpled form, now being carefully lifted by the healers. Her face was slick with sweat and tears, but her jaw was set like carved stone.
"A broken knee," Zuri murmured, wincing sympathetically. "She'll be limping for months."
"If she walks at all," Kenya added bluntly.
Rega's eyes narrowed—not at the injury, but at the afterglow of golden àṣẹ still clinging faintly to her."She prayed," he said quietly. "I saw it. In the way the air stirred around her. In the way her kick landed."
Kenya blinked at him. "You think her Orisha intervened?"
"I think," Rega replied, voice sharpening, "that I am tired of Orisha meddling in my tournament."
Zuri stiffened. "My king… the High Seer runs the rites with precision. The Orisha only watch when invited."
Rega gave him a sideways look—slow, cold, irritated."Is that what you believe?"
Zuri swallowed. "I—I believe what my king believes."
Kenya snorted before she could stop herself.
Rega turned to her. "You have something to say?"
She hesitated… then nodded once."I'll be honest, my king. I don't like that one.""You mean the High Seer?" Rega asked, eyebrow lifting.
"No," Kenya said. "The girl. Zola."Her gaze dropped again to the arena floor."She's too bright. Too loved. And the crowd… felt something today. Something bigger than a fight."
Zuri nodded. "People will talk about this match for years."
"Exactly," Kenya said. "And people who get remembered… can become dangerous."
Rega leaned back in his throne, expression unreadable, but his voice came out like a blade being drawn."All these seers, these blessed children, these stars shining in my kingdom…"He scoffed."I do not trust any of them. Or the gods that play with their strings."
Zuri let out a quiet breath. "The Orisha don't care for humans, sire."
Rega's lips twitched—something between agreement and disdain.
"Exactly. Which is why those who claim to speak for them worry me most."
Below, Zola was lifted from the arena and carried through the healer's gate. The crowd cheered her name—Zola! Zola! Zola!—and the sound rolled like thunder across the old stone.
Rega watched the gate close behind her before speaking again.
"Keep your eyes open," he ordered quietly. "The Orishas are moving pieces on my board."His gaze hardened."And I intend to know why."