Midnight fell over Akàra like a held breath.
The city slept uneasily. Fires dimmed, and drums silenced, as though even stone and flame feared what was about to awaken. Shadows pooled along the rooftops and alleyways, twisting and stretching in shapes that seemed almost alive, reluctant to release their vigil. Deep within the palace grounds, beyond walls forbidden to all but priests and kings, Tùwò Grove glowed softly beneath the moonless sky.
The trees were ancient, older than Akàra itself. Their trunks twisted skyward like frozen spirits, bark pale and veined with faintly glowing sap that pulsed in slow, rhythmic beats. The air was thick, almost viscous, pressing against Kàdàri's skin until every breath felt borrowed, precious, weighted with expectation. The grove smelled of earth, resin, and something faintly metallic, like the scent of blood long settled into stone.
He stood barefoot at the grove's edge. Cold stone bit into his feet, sharp against the soles, pulling a shiver up his spine. His pulse pounded in time with the sap-light that dripped softly from the trees, and he wondered if it was responding to him, or if he was responding to it.
"Do not step forward unless you are ready," Adebáyò said. Her voice carried no threat, only truth. It was calm, precise, and carried the weight of lifetimes.
Kàdàri swallowed. His chest ached again, that familiar pulse stirring beneath his ribs, responding to the grove as if it recognized him, or perhaps calling him home. He looked down at his hands. They trembled, fingers curling and uncurling, unsure if they would obey or betray him.
"I don't even know what I'm proving," he said quietly. His voice sounded small against the towering trees, fragile as a whisper lost in the wind.
Adebáyò turned to face him fully. In the pale glow, the lines on her face appeared deeper, carved by decades of secrets, sacrifices, and sleepless nights spent keeping the city safe. "You are not proving yourself to us," she replied. "You are proving yourself to the Blood."
She gestured toward the center of the grove.
A stone altar rose there, carved from a single slab of black rock. Its surface was etched with spiraling symbols that seemed to twist and shift when he wasn't looking directly at them. The ground around it was dark, not with rot or dirt, but with something older. Memory. Echoes of the past that had seeped into the stone, waiting.
"The Ancients watch from beyond," Adebáyò continued. Her voice lowered, reverent. "They answer only those bound by Zàfara's line."
Kàdàri's jaw tightened. "And if I fail?"
The priests lining the grove exchanged uneasy glances. Their robes rustled like dry leaves, staffs tapping against the stone, faint, nervous rhythms.
Adebáyò did not look away. "Then Akàra falls faster than we feared."
Silence stretched like a drawn bowstring. The forest itself seemed to hold its breath.
Kàdàri laughed weakly, the sound bitter and hollow. "That's… comforting."
Yet his feet moved anyway. Each step toward the altar felt heavier than the last, as though the grove resisted him, or tested him. The sap-light brightened as he approached, shadows bending inward, forming strange, half-seen shapes along the edges of his vision. Branches creaked, whispering in a language older than the city itself, murmuring doubts and warnings that only he could feel.
Adebáyò followed, stopping across from him.
"Place your hand on the altar," she instructed. Her tone was soft, yet firm, the kind of command that left no room for argument.
He hesitated, heart hammering, then obeyed.
The stone was warm. Too warm. Heat seeped into his palm, crawling up his arm like liquid fire.
A pulse surged through him, sharp and sudden, and he gasped. His knees threatened to buckle, but he forced himself to stay still.
"Good," Adebáyò murmured. "It recognizes you."
She drew a ceremonial blade from her sleeve, its edge shimmering with a dull crimson sheen. Without hesitation, she sliced her palm. Blood welled, but it was not ordinary blood. It glowed faintly, thick and luminous, like sap drawn from the heart of the grove itself. The scent of iron and magic filled the air.
Kàdàri's breath hitched. "What are you doing?"
"Binding the call," Adebáyò said. "The Ancients do not answer empty voices."
She held her bleeding palm toward him.
"Touch mine," she said softly. "And call."
"Call who?" he demanded.
"The ones who came before," she replied. "Zàfara. The first kings. The watchers beyond death."
"I don't know how!"
"Then let the Blood remember."
Reluctantly, Kàdàri pressed his palm against hers.
The world shattered.
Power slammed into him like a tidal wave, tearing the breath from his lungs. The grove vanished, replaced by blinding light and screaming wind. He was no longer standing, he was falling, no, being pulled through layers of time, through echoes of life long extinguished.
Images crashed into him.
A woman screaming in childbirth, her blood igniting the air with golden fire.
A towering city crowned in light, Zàfara, before it was broken, consumed by shadows.
A shadow rising, vast and endless, its maw opening wide enough to swallow the sky.
Ògùrù.
The name echoed without sound, thrumming through every nerve in his body.
He saw a pact sealed in blood and darkness. A desperate choice. Chains forged not of iron, but of sacrifice.
"No, stop!" Kàdàri screamed.
The visions intensified. Pain lanced through him. The Shadowmaw stirred, hunger pressing against something fragile and failing. He saw Mbòri kneeling before the void, smiling as seals weakened, pleasure radiating from every deliberate movement.
Agony tore through him. He collapsed to his knees, screaming as the power threatened to rip him apart.
Adebáyò's hands gripped his shoulders.
"Kàdàri!" she shouted. Her voice cut through the chaos like a blade, anchoring him to the present.
"You are not a vessel," she said fiercely. "You are a gate. Control the Blood, do not let it control you!"
"I can't!" he sobbed. "It's too much!"
"You must," she pressed, forehead to his, her heat and presence grounding him. "Zàfara's power binds the void. Without you, the Shadowmaw will awaken fully."
The name struck him like thunder.
"The… Shadowmaw?" he gasped.
"Yes," Adebáyò said. "It devours worlds. Zàfara was built to cage it. The Blood keeps the lock intact."
The visions slowed. Pain lingered, but the chaos coiled deep within his chest like a sleeping beast, settling, waiting.
He collapsed forward, gasping, sweat-soaked and trembling.
The grove came back into focus. Moonless sky, twisted pale trees, glowing sap, and the altar standing silent and imposing. The priests were still kneeling, reverent, awed.
Adebáyò stood over him, breathing hard, blood still dripping from her palm.
"It's true," one priest whispered, voice barely audible. "The Ancients answered."
Kàdàri looked up, eyes burning. "You used me," he said hoarsely, fury and fear mingling.
Adebáyò did not deny it. "Yes."
Anger flared, sharp and hot. "You dragged me into this! I didn't ask to bind monsters or save cities!"
She knelt before him, meeting his gaze without flinching. "Neither did Zàfara," she said quietly. "But here we are."
The grove darkened slightly, the sap dimming, shadows curling inward, almost whispering secrets only Kàdàri could sense.
Far away, beyond sight and walls, something stirred.
In the deep shadows where Mbòri waited, a ripple of power reached him, twisting and alive. He smiled, a low, cruel grin.
"So," Mbòri murmured, "the Blood wakes at last."
The city slept on, unaware that the scales of fate had shifted, that a single boy held the balance of life, death, and power far beyond his understanding.