The Land of Songhai was not only rich in soil, livestock, and beauty—it was also a land of faith, where every city lifted its hands to the heavens, but not always to the same god.
Each people had carved for themselves an image of the divine, an idol to worship, and a name to call upon in times of need. In Aniodal Mat, the farmers prayed to the god of harvest, a deity they believed controlled the rains and the fertility of their soil. In Danish, the herders offered sacrifice to the god of beasts, believing their herds would multiply only by his blessing. Smaller cities worshiped gods of rivers, fire, or stone, each holding tightly to their chosen spirit, each convinced their deity held dominion.
But above them all, one god was most feared, most praised, and most spoken of.
It was the god of Cural—Zethral, the god of strength, fire, and mystery.
The people of Songhai believed that Zethral was no ordinary god, but one fashioned with greater power and majesty than the rest. His image was carved from black stone, polished until it gleamed, standing tall within the heart of Cural's great temple. His eyes were made of rare gems that seemed to burn with their own light, and in his hand he carried a staff of flame and judgment.
Priests of Zethral declared him as the highest among gods, the one before whom all others must bow. Songs rose in his name at dawn, sacrifices were offered at dusk, and festivals filled the city with firelight to honor him. To praise Zethral was to invoke protection, to seek strength, and to call upon a power that the people swore even the Forbidden Forest could not withstand.
Yet, for all their reverence of Zethral, there was one thing the people of Cural hated above all: witches.
From childhood, every boy and girl was told the same stories. Their elders would sit them down by the fire and speak of shadows that crept too close to the city walls. They would warn them that witches were not merely women with strange powers, but deceivers who bore the mark of evil. They were said to carry twisted eyes, voices that could charm the weak, and hands that sought to defile the blessings of Zethral.
Because Cural stood closest to the Forbidden Forest, its people believed they were most likely to see such creatures. And so, they sharpened their knowledge with generational stories, passing down ways to identify a witch, to resist her spells, and to destroy her should she appear.
One story, more than any other, lingered in their memory.
It was said that many years ago, when the moon was heavy and red in the sky, a woman was found wandering the edge of the forest. She was tall and cloaked, her hair matted, her eyes burning with an unnatural light. The hunters of Cural caught her by the riverbank, where she was muttering words no one understood, her hands stirring the water as though to summon something from beneath.
They dragged her into the city, bound in chains, and for three nights she neither slept nor ate. Instead, she laughed. Her laughter was shrill and sharp, echoing through the streets like the cry of a raven. Many said the sound made even brave men tremble.
On the fourth day, the priests of Zethral declared her a witch. They said her presence was a curse, that her blood was poison, and that to leave her alive would draw the wrath of their god. So they carried her to the open field beyond the city gates, where the people gathered with stones in their hands.
Her laughter turned to curses then—words spoken in a tongue older than Songhai itself. She spat upon the ground and swore that fire would consume them all. But the people did not fear, for they chanted the name of Zethral, calling upon their god to silence her.
When the stones fell, the laughter stopped.
They buried her there, beneath the earth, marking the grave with no stone, no name, no memory—only the warning passed from father to son, from mother to daughter: "Beware the witch, for her spirit still wanders the forest, waiting for the careless to call her forth."
And so, in Cural, the story lived on, told at firesides and whispered in markets, shaping the people with both fear and devotion. For in the Land of Songhai, gods ruled the living, but witches were reminders that shadows always waited beyond the light.