he night pressed close over the village, thick as a blanket woven from smoke and silence. The air carried the scent of rain-soaked earth and the faint, metallic tang of fear that seemed to linger everywhere these days. Dogs barked at shadows. Babies woke crying without reason. Even the wind moved cautiously through the trees, as if unwilling to stir what slept beneath.
Inside his hut, Sola sat awake though the hour was deep. His eyes traced the roof beams above, but his mind followed the whispers that curled endlessly through the corners of his thoughts. They spoke in fragments, voices too many to count, rising and falling like a restless tide. They watch… they fear… they sharpen their blades…
He pressed his hands against his temples, willing the voices into silence. But silence was no mercy. The quiet only made the words sharper, clearer, until his chest tightened with the certainty that danger was near.
Across the village, Ife tossed in her sleep. Her dreams were dark waters filled with faces — villagers she knew, their eyes hollow, their mouths chanting her name. She woke with a cry, clutching her mat, and for a moment she swore she saw figures moving outside her window. But when she blinked, the yard was empty, the moonlight unbroken. Still, her body shivered as if touched by cold fingers.
Kunle, by contrast, welcomed the unease. He sat outside his hut, staring into the night with a smile tugging at his lips. He felt the whispers like fire beneath his skin, quickening his pulse, sharpening his senses. He could hear the scuttle of lizards across stone, the shift of leaves high in the iroko tree, the tremble of footsteps not yet close enough to see. The oath thrummed inside him, eager, hungry. And Kunle let it.
By the yam barns, the secret group of villagers gathered once more. Seven of them, faces hidden in the shadows, hearts pounding like war drums in their chests. They carried machetes, bows, and a gourd of oil, their breaths steaming in the cool air. Fear bound them as tightly as the oath bound the three young ones they meant to kill.
"It must be swift," whispered the hunter who led them. His hands shook as he strung his bow. "Strike and vanish before they can call on the curse."
"The girl first," another muttered. "She is weakest. End her, and the others may falter."
"No," the hunter said. "It is the boy Kunle we must fear. He smiles too easily. He carries the curse with pride. Him first."
They argued in low voices until a hand silenced them. Adewale had not come, but his spirit seemed to hover in their words, urging them forward. Fear hardened into resolve. They chose Kunle.
Kunle did not move when they came. He had felt them long before their shadows crept across the path. He sat cross-legged, the moonlight silvering his skin, eyes half-closed as though in meditation. But when the first villager stepped into the clearing, machete raised, Kunle opened his eyes.
"I wondered when you would come," he said. His voice was calm, too calm.
The villagers froze. His words carried no surprise, only expectation.
One of them shouted, more to drown his fear than to command, and the first arrow loosed. It cut through the night like a hiss of anger — but before it struck, Kunle was already on his feet. His hand snapped out, faster than the eye could follow, and the arrow clattered harmlessly against the ground.
Gasps filled the clearing. Someone dropped their weapon.
The oath burned inside Kunle, and the whispers screamed for blood. He lunged, and his strength was more than flesh should hold. His palm struck one man's chest, sending him sprawling backward into the dirt with a cry of pain. Another swung a machete, but Kunle caught the blade barehanded, and though the edge sliced his skin, the wound closed as quickly as it opened.
The villagers faltered. Terror replaced their courage. They had come to kill, but now it was death that looked at them with human eyes.
Then came Sola, breathless, rushing into the clearing with Ife just behind him.
"Stop!" Sola cried, his voice breaking. "Kunle, stop this madness!"
But Kunle's eyes burned like embers. "They came to kill us," he said, his voice low, almost a growl. "They came with blades and fire. Why should we not show them what it means to strike first?"
The villager on the ground groaned, clutching his ribs. Another staggered back, dropping his bow.
Sola placed himself between Kunle and the others, his hands outstretched. "Because if we spill their blood, the village will never forgive. We will be monsters in their eyes forever. Is that what you want, Kunle? To become the very curse they fear?"
For a moment, silence pressed heavy on the night. Kunle's chest heaved, the whispers roaring inside him, begging him to finish it. His gaze flicked to the wounded man, to the trembling villagers still clutching their weapons. His fingers twitched.
Then he spat into the dirt and stepped back. "Run, then. Run and tell the others what you saw."
The villagers did not wait. They fled into the night, stumbling over roots and stones, their fear louder than any war cry.
When they were gone, Ife collapsed to her knees, tears spilling freely. Sola turned on Kunle, fury in his eyes. "You cannot keep feeding it. You hear me? This power — it will consume you if you let it."
Kunle only laughed, the sound dark and hollow. "Maybe it already has."
Above them, the moon slipped behind a cloud, plunging the clearing into shadow. And in the silence that followed
, the oath pulsed in their veins, alive, watching, waiting.