The night felt different after the oath. The air was thick, as if every tree and stone in the forest had become a witness to what they had done. The moon, pale and swollen, hung above them like a watchful eye. Nobody dared to meet its gaze for long, as though the light itself might judge them.
Sola pressed his palm against his side, feeling the dull ache where the blade had nicked him. The blood had long stopped flowing, but the sting reminded him that the oath was not a dream. It was real, and it was dangerous.
The others stood in a loose circle around the stone, their faces half-shadowed by moonlight. Femi shifted on his feet, glancing nervously at the trees. Adunni stood still, her chin high, but her eyes betrayed something else—fear mixed with defiance.
Elder Ojo's voice broke the silence, deep and worn with age.
"It is done," he said. "The oath is sealed. You belong to it now, as it belongs to you. The spirits of the land have taken your words, and they will not forget."
A cold shiver went through the group. Everyone knew the elder's words were not just warnings. They were truth.
He lifted his staff, tapping it once on the ground.
"You have bound yourselves to one another. Betrayal will be your death. Weakness will invite the spirits' wrath. But loyalty—loyalty will open doors no man has dared to touch."
The clearing grew quieter, as though the forest itself leaned in to hear.
Then came the sound.
A sharp crack, like a heavy branch snapping, echoed through the woods. All heads turned at once. The sound rolled across the trees, followed by a rustle of movement that did not belong to the wind.
Femi's breath caught. "We… we are not alone."
No one answered.
The forest stared back at them, a sea of black shadows stretching endlessly in every direction. The crackling stopped, replaced by silence so thick that even the beat of their hearts felt too loud.
Elder Ojo closed his eyes briefly, as if listening to something only he could hear. Then he raised his staff high, letting its carved tip catch the moonlight.
"Go home," he commanded. "Tonight you swore. Tomorrow the trial begins."
"The trial?" Adunni asked, her voice breaking the silence.
Ojo's gaze rested on her, heavy and unreadable.
"The spirits will test you. They must know if your oath has weight. They will come in dreams, in whispers, in trials of fire and fear. Only those who endure will see the path forward. And only those who prove worthy will carry the power you seek."
No one argued. No one even breathed too loudly.
At last, the group began to scatter, leaving the sacred stone behind. The clearing seemed to close around it as though the forest itself wished to keep the memory.
Sola walked beside Adunni as they made their way down the narrow trail that cut through the trees. The night insects chirped, but their rhythm sounded different—too sharp, too uneven, like a warning hidden in their song.
Neither spoke for a long while. But Sola's mind was heavy with questions.
"Do you regret it?" he finally asked. His voice was low, almost a whisper, but it carried in the stillness of the night.
Adunni kept her eyes forward. "Do you?"
He hesitated. He wanted to say no, to sound strong, to pretend the oath was just another step on the path they had already chosen. But the truth was a knot in his chest.
"I don't know," he admitted.
Adunni slowed, her dark eyes turning to meet his. There was no anger there, only something like sadness.
"The oath is bigger than regret," she said softly. "Even if we wanted to turn back, there is no road behind us anymore."
Her words sank deep into him. He knew she was right. The oath had not just bound them to each other—it had cut them off from everything else.
Far behind them, Femi walked with two others. His hands trembled slightly, though he tried to hide it.
"Did you hear it too?" one of the boys asked him.
"The crack?" Femi's voice was tight. "Yes. And it wasn't just a tree falling. Something was watching us."
They fell into silence again, quickening their pace as though the forest might close in if they lingered too long.
By the time Sola reached his home, the moon was already beginning to dip. The small hut felt colder than usual, the thatched roof groaning softly in the wind. He lay down, but sleep did not come easily.
When it did, it came with shadows.
He dreamed of the sacred stone, glowing red with the blood they had spilled. He saw hands—his, Adunni's, Femi's, and the rest—pressed together, but instead of binding, the hands began to burn, the flesh turning to ash. A voice echoed from somewhere he could not see:
"The oath is sealed. Now let us see if you can bear its weight."
Sola woke with a gasp, sweat clinging to his skin though the night was cold. Outside, the forest was quiet, but the silence was no comfort.
He sat up, staring at the moonlight spilling through the cracks of the hut. Somewhere deep inside, he knew the trial had already begun.
At dawn, the village stirred. Children fetched water, women prepared fires, and men sharpened tools. Yet beneath the ordinary rhythm of life, something had changed. The ones who had sworn the oath carried it in their eyes—shadows, fear, and a strange fire that could not be hidden.
Elder Ojo watched them all from his hut near the edge of the forest. His gaze was distant, his staff resting across his knees. He had seen many oaths in his lifetime, many ceremonies whispered under the moon. But this one was different. He had felt it in the earth when their blood touched the stone.
And in that quiet moment, the old man wondered if even he had made a mistake.
The spirits had listened. The spirits had stirred.
And once awake, spirits did not sleep again.
Sola walked to the river later that morning, trying to clear his head. The water was cool, running over smooth stones, but as he bent to wash his face, he froze.
His reflection was not his own.
In the water, he saw his eyes glowing faintly red, his lips moving though he had not spoken. The voice came again, soft but sharp, like a blade against his mind:
"The oath binds you. The trial claims you. Run, and the forest will find you."
He stumbled back, heart racing, but when he looked again, the reflection was normal—his own tired face staring back at him.
Sola's hands shook. He knew then that Elder Ojo's warning had not been an old man's tale. The spirits were real. The trial was real.
And the price of failure would be more than death.
That night, as the moo
n rose once more, the oath-bearers would all dream the same dream.
And in that dream, the first trial would begin.