In the world of Ife, where Orishas, Humans, And all kind of humanoid races and beast coexist in Court, Empires, Kingdoms, And States.
There exist a human kingdom called Oyase , who is ruled by the legendary Oya Family, descendants of the legendary God Queen Oya, Goddess of storms, winds, lightening and rebirth.
In a small hut in a village in this kingdom, a boy is being born.
The skies over Fantasia trembled that night.
It began with a storm rolling over the vast stretch of the Kingdom of Oyase, its clouds heavy with rain and lightning that split the heavens open. The winds howled as though they carried the voices of long-forgotten gods, sweeping across forests, mountains, and rivers until at last they reached a humble fishing village by the banks of the great River Yemo.
Ado. A village so small it was barely a speck on the kingdom's grand maps. Its people lived simple lives—fishermen who cast their nets by dawn, women who smoked the catch by dusk, children who played by the riverside until the call of their mothers drew them home. Yet on this night, the village was restless. Dogs barked at shadows. Lantern flames quivered and sputtered as if threatened by some unseen breath. The storm felt different—alive, purposeful.
Within a small, reed-thatched hut near the river's edge, a woman labored through the night.
"I can see the head, keep pushing!" urged the midwife, a grey-haired woman with skin dark as polished mahogany, her voice carrying both firmness and calm. Her name was Efun, oldest of the healers in Ado, and her hands had delivered nearly every child in the village. Yet as she worked tonight, something inside her chest stirred uneasily.
The mother, sweat-drenched and trembling, clenched her jaw and bore down. Her cries rose with the thunder above, each push accompanied by a roll of the skies as though the heavens labored with her, as though the skies and storms were welcoming it's herald.
"Hmphhhhhh!" she groaned, gripping the straw mat beneath her.
"Just one more, child, one more," Efun urged.
The storm outside broke violently. A fork of lightning struck the River Yemo itself, turning its waters silver for a heartbeat. The ground trembled with the aftershock—and in that very moment, the baby was born.
His cry tore through the storm, sharp and defiant, louder than thunder.
Efun caught him in her arms, but the breath in her chest stilled. She had delivered countless infants, yet never had she seen such a thing: the newborn's skin shimmered faintly as though kissed by raindrops that did not dry. His tiny fists clenched, and when his eyes opened, they gleamed with a strange brightness—silver like lightning etched across storm clouds.
"A boy," Efun whispered, but her voice carried more awe than announcement. "A strong boy… born of storm and river."
The mother collapsed back, chest heaving, tears streaking her face. Relief softened her exhaustion as she reached weakly for her child. Efun hesitated, still staring at the babe, before finally handing him over.
The woman cradled him, pressing her forehead against his damp skin. "Sanya," she whispered, naming him with her first breath of peace. "My Sanya."
At the sound of his name, the storm outside shifted. The thunder quieted, the rain softened, the winds and sky itself stilled, and for a single, impossible instant, the mighty River Yemo stilled as if bowing in reverence.
Efun's eyes widened. She muttered under her breath the words of an ancient prayer, taught only among the priestesses of Oya long ago:
"May the storm carry him, may the river guide him, may Oya's rebirth dwell within him."
And far from Ado, deep within the grand Temple of Oya where bronze spires pierced the heavens, where even kings and emperors bow in reverence, where even gods dare not intrude, the bells of the sanctum tolled once on their own. No priestess had touched them. Yet the sound echoed across the temple halls, carrying into the ears of those who served the Storm Queen's line. They fell to their knees in silence. They understood.
A child tied to Oya's legacy had been born.
The hut smelled of rain-soaked earth and herbs, the air heavy with the scent of life and storm. Efun, the midwife, sat back on her heels, her old bones aching, yet her gaze never left the infant. She had seen many births, but never one like this.
She leaned closer to the mother. "Do not forget this night, child. The gods have touched him. Storms do not still, nor rivers bow, for just any soul."
The mother—Ajoke—tightened her hold on her son, as if afraid the world might already try to take him. "He is mine," she whispered fiercely, her eyes burning with a mother's fire. "Even if the gods themselves marked him, he is mine first."
Before Efun could answer, the door of the hut burst open with the rush of damp night air. A tall man stumbled in, dripping with river water, his fishing net still slung over his shoulder. His eyes, dark and wide with worry, darted to the mat.
"Ajoke?" His voice cracked. Then he saw the bundle in her arms, the faint shimmer of the child's skin beneath the firelight. He froze. "By the ancestors…"
"Your son," Ajoke said, smiling weakly through her exhaustion.
The man fell to his knees beside her, his calloused hands trembling as he reached to touch the boy's tiny fingers. The child's grip closed tightly around his father's thumb, strong for a newborn. Tears welled in the man's eyes. "Sanya," he whispered, the name already binding itself to his heart.
But as he gazed upon his son, he noticed something that made his breath catch. Behind the boy's head, just for an instant, the shadows of the hut seemed to twist—not into darkness, but into the faint outline of a crown of stormlight. It faded as quickly as it came, leaving only the baby's soft breathing.
The man crossed himself with trembling hands, whispering prayers to both ancestors and gods. "Oya… Storm Queen… what have you given us?"
Outside, the storm had quieted, but the village was far from calm. Neighbors gathered near the hut, whispering nervously to one another. They had seen the lightning strike the river, felt the ground tremble. Some swore they heard a cry that silenced the storm itself. To them, this was no ordinary birth.
By morning, Ado would be alive with rumors. By nightfall, word would reach the kingdom's priesthood. And within days, even the distant courts of Oyase would hear whispers of the child born by the River Yemo—the boy whose birth made storms bow.
Yet within the hut, there was only a family, a mother and father staring in awe at their newborn son, unaware that destiny had already placed its hand upon his tiny shoulders.
Efun rose slowly, her joints creaking, and drew her shawl tighter around her thin frame. She looked once more at the boy and shivered—not from the cold, but from the weight of what she knew.
"The world has gained a herald," she murmured, almost to herself. "But whether he brings rebirth… or ruin… only Oya knows."
And as dawn crept over the horizon, painting the river in gold, the legend of Sanya Hale had begun.