Chapter One: Birth of Darkness
The drums beat in the square, calling the poor from every alley and mud road of Kivuli.
Children scampered onto rooftops. Women leaned from windows. Men abandoned their work to gather at the sound. It was rare for the herald's horn to sound in the lower quarter.
Today was no ordinary day.
"By decree of the Crown," the herald bellowed, his gold-trimmed voice carrying across the slum, "a child of the commoners has been chosen to compete in the games against the blood of the nobles!"
Gasps rippled through the crowd. Murmurs rose into a tide. The poor of Kivuli had no voice, no chance, no place in the shining halls of power. But now one of their own had been called to stand in the arena.
The herald's hand lifted, parchment unfurled.
"Sefu Zuberi."
The name struck like a hammer. Villagers erupted into cheers, laughter, even tears. Old men clutched each other, women lifted their children onto their shoulders, shouting his name as if it were a victory already won.
"If he triumphs, we triumph!" someone cried.
"He will show them we are no less than they are!" another roared.
Sefu stood frozen in the dust, his little sister Neema clutching his hand, her copper-colored hair tangled in the wind. His heart pounded in his chest like a war drum.
"You'll win," Neema whispered fiercely. "You always do. You'll win for us."
His father, Jabari, the blacksmith, laid a heavy hand on his shoulder. "Be strong, my son. The weight of hope is heavy but it is worth carrying."
His mother, Amina, smiled softly, though fear shadowed her eyes. "Do not forget, Sefu… nobles are not like us. They play with rules we cannot see."
Across the square, the chosen noble heir stepped forward. Draped in silk, his serpent crest glimmering, he sneered at Sefu as though the boy were dirt. His father, a lord of House Nyoka, stood behind him, lips pressed thin in disdain.
The crowd's joy was a fire. But in the eyes of the Nyoka, it was an insult.
That night, whispers reached the noble estate: peasants spoke as though they might one day stand equal to lions. As though blood did not matter. As though a smith's son could rise beside a serpent's heir.
Lord Nyoka's laughter was low and sharp. "We will show them their place. Not in the arena. In the ashes."
The fire came three nights later.
It began with shouts in the street, then the crash of boots. Smoke choked the slums as armored men stormed through the alleys. Their breastplates bore the serpent of House Nyoka, silver fangs gleaming in the night.
Jabari seized his hammer. "Run!" he bellowed, striking as the first knight broke through the door. The hammer crashed against steel, sparks leaping like lightning. He struck again, shattering a jaw.
But he was only a smith. A blade pierced his chest. Blood fountained, spraying across the small home. He staggered, gasping, and fell with a crash.
Amina screamed and hurled herself forward. A mailed fist smashed into her skull. She collapsed, crimson staining the earth floor.
Sefu stumbled forward, only to be hurled back by a soldier's boot. His ribs cracked with a sickening crunch. He spat blood, struggling to crawl to Neema, who was sobbing in terror. He pulled her against him, whispering, "Don't look. Don't look."
But she looked.
And that was when Lord Nyoka himself entered the burning hovel.
Draped in black silk, a jeweled goblet in hand, he stepped through the smoke as though the flames bowed to him. His lips curved in amusement.
"Pathetic," he said softly, his gaze sweeping the blood and fire. "Did you think rats could ever sit beside lions?"
He nodded to his knight. The man seized Neema by the hair. Sefu clawed at the knight's legs, screaming, begging, but his broken ribs left him powerless.
The sword flashed.
Neema's scream ended in a wet gurgle. Blood splattered across Sefu's face, hot and metallic. Her body crumpled into the fire, small and fragile, her eyes wide and lifeless.
Sefu's world ended.
He crawled from the ruins hours later, smoke-blackened and trembling. His father's hammer lay twisted in the ash. His mother's body was cold. Neema's hand was too small in his, already stiff.
Somehow, he staggered into the plaza.
There, gleaming in the torchlight, stood the Walinzi wa Nuru the Guardians of the Light. Their cloaks were white as ivory, their armor polished like mirrors. To the people of Kivuli, they were saints, protectors, justice made flesh.
Sefu collapsed before them, choking out his plea. "Please! House Nyoka my family they killed them all! Please, help me!"
The captain's eyes, cold and pale, looked down on him.
"Your family dared insult noble blood. That is not our concern."
The words struck harder than the knight's boot had. Sefu shook, blood and tears streaking his face. "But they slaughtered my sister! She was only nine! They "
The captain shoved him to the ground. "Begone, boy. Or I'll finish what they started."
The Walinzi wa Nuru turned their backs. Their golden cloaks swept away into the night.
In that moment, grief curdled into hatred.
Years passed.
Sefu survived like a rat in the gutters. He stole bread crusts, drank rain from gutters, gnawed bones from the trash. The priests ignored him. The nobles crushed him. The Guardians sneered as they passed.
But every night, Neema's dying scream echoed in his dreams. Every morning, he whispered the same vow:
If peace is built on betrayal, then peace must burn.
It was hunger that led him to the ruins.
At the city's edge, beneath roots and shattered stone, lay a temple long abandoned. Priests called it cursed. Few dared to go near.
But Sefu entered.
The air was thick with rot. Bones littered the floor. At the center stood an altar of black stone, and upon it, bound in chains, lay a book.
The Kitabu cha Mauti.
Its cover was stitched from human skin, twitching as though alive. The chains rattled when he approached, as if warning him.
But he placed his hand upon it.
The book convulsed. Whispers filled his skull, cold as knives.
"Do you forsake the light?"
He saw his father's chest pierced.
His mother's skull split.
Neema's throat opened, blood across his face.
The Guardians turning their backs.
His lips split into a broken grin. "Yes."
The chains burst. The book opened. Black script slithered from the pages onto his arms, burning into his skin like living worms. He screamed as shadows carved through his veins, searing his flesh.
Bones stirred. Skulls snapped upright. Spines cracked. The dead clawed their way from the dust, eyes blazing green.
One by one, they knelt before him.
Sefu looked down at his shadow-marked hands and whispered:
"Life… is nothing but ones and zeros. Alive. Dead. Nothing in between."
And for the first time since Neema's death, he laughed.
The sound echoed through the temple, cruel and hollow.
Above, House Nyoka still feasted.
The Walinzi wa Nuru still patrolled.
The king of Kivuli still slept.
They did not yet know.
But they would.
Sefu Zuberi raised his hand. The dead obeyed.
The boy was gone.
In his place stood something darker.
And this was only the beginning.