Kàdàri stumbled back, his knees threatening to buckle beneath him. The world twisted, visions spilling into one another like fractured mirrors. The void yawned wide, swallowing light and sound. Shadowmaw's eyes burned crimson in the darkness, and somewhere, distant yet intimately close, Zàfara's doom echoed like a whisper he couldn't ignore. A sharp hand caught him by the shoulder, steadying him before he fell entirely.
"Adebáyò…" he gasped, blinking rapidly to clear the haze.
"Breathe," she commanded, her voice low but sharp as steel. "The Blood speaks. Listen."
Kàdàri's chest heaved. His mind reeled with fragments: the void, a tide of crimson, whispers that clawed at his sanity. The visions pressed in from all sides, threatening to overwhelm him entirely. He gagged, unable to distinguish where his thoughts ended and the Blood began. What's happening? he thought, panic climbing his spine.
Adebáyò pressed her bloody palm to his forehead. The warmth of her touch seared through him, not painfully, but with a pressure that forced his thoughts to slow, to align. Colors and shapes settled into something he could understand, like raindrops forming into rivers.
"Zàfara's power binds the Shadowmaw," she repeated, her voice now calm but filled with authority. "Kàdàri… you control the Blood. You must train. Or Mbòri wins."
Kàdàri's lips trembled. "Mbòri? Ògùrù… wants… me?"
Adebáyò's eyes, dark as onyx, met his. "Ògùrù seeks the Blood for Mbòri's dark pact. If he breaks Zàfara's seal… Shadowmaw devours all. Cities, forests, rivers… nothing will survive."
The gravity of her words settled over him like a suffocating cloak. Kàdàri's fists clenched at his sides. He could feel the Blood thrumming in his veins, restless and impatient, demanding action. The weight of responsibility pressed down on him, not as a boy, not as an apprentice, but as the inheritor of a power older than kingdoms.
From the shadows, priests emerged, dragging a bronze-bound chest. Its surface was etched with sigils that seemed to shift when the candlelight flickered. "Kàdàri's legacy," one whispered, reverent and fearful.
Kàdàri approached slowly, his heart hammering. Inside lay an ancient blade, its surface blackened and etched with veins of crimson that pulsed faintly, as if alive. His fingers itched to touch it, to feel its weight, its promise.
"That's Ìjè," Adebáyò warned, her hand hovering above the chest as if to mark it sacred. "Key to the Blood. Use it wisely. Every strike, every motion, every thought you channel through it leaves a mark on the world. Do not underestimate it, Kàdàri."
The boy reached out, hesitating just a fraction before grasping the hilt. A surge of power erupted through him like molten fire, coursing from his fingertips, through his veins, into the very marrow of his bones. The world seemed to pause, holding its breath, acknowledging him.
I'm not running. I'm fighting, he thought, teeth gritted. A spark of defiance ignited in his chest, a light against the shadow that sought to consume everything.
Zàra appeared from the doorway, her knife gleaming even in the dim light. "Training starts now," she said, her tone precise, unyielding. "Mbòri won't wait. Neither should you."
The first strike came not from her, but from the shadows themselves. Dark tendrils, writhing like serpents, slashed toward him. Kàdàri barely lifted Ìjè in time, the blade sparking against the unnatural darkness. Heat and energy surged along the metal into his arm, and he felt the Blood respond instinctively, twisting around the blade as if it were part of him.
Adebáyò moved beside him, her hands tracing patterns in the air. Symbols flared to life in a faint red glow. "Focus on the rhythm," she instructed. "The Blood is not a weapon of brute force. It is a living current. Let it guide, let it flow, let it bind and strike."
Kàdàri nodded, eyes narrowing. Sweat stung his brow as he swung Ìjè in measured arcs, each movement a conversation with the power within him. The shadows recoiled, only to reform and strike again, testing him, probing for weakness. Every parry and thrust left him exhausted, yet exhilarated, as if the blade itself demanded mastery, demanded respect.
Memories of Zàfara flickered in his mind, visions of her sealing Shadowmaw with her own Blood, her face pale and determined, hands pressed against a shimmering red sigil that pulsed like a heartbeat. I must not fail, Kàdàri thought. I cannot let this end as it did for her.
Hours passed, though time felt stretched and elastic, bending to the intensity of the training. Kàdàri's muscles screamed, his lungs burned, yet he moved with a growing confidence, the Blood no longer a foreign current but a part of him, an extension of his very being.
Adebáyò observed silently, nodding occasionally. "Good… but control your fear," she said at last. "Fear will fracture your connection. Anger will shatter it. Calm, Kàdàri. Calm, and the Blood becomes your ally."
He inhaled sharply, feeling the steady pulse of life within him, the hum of the Blood echoing against the rhythm of his heart. Slowly, he lifted Ìjè high, drawing the sigils of power in a sweeping arc. Crimson light erupted, weaving around him like a cage of fire and shadow, and the tendrils that attacked him dissolved into sparks and smoke.
"Again," Zàra said, circling him, knife at the ready. "Faster. Smarter. The Shadowmaw does not wait for hesitation."
Kàdàri felt a twinge of fear, but it was different now, tempered by understanding, by purpose. He did not run. He did not falter. He moved as one with the Blood, Ìjè singing in his grasp, his every motion precise and powerful.
The night deepened around them, stars veiled by a storm of shadow that seemed to draw closer with every strike. Kàdàri's vision blurred with sweat and exertion, yet through the haze, he glimpsed the Shadowmaw, not the beast itself, but its essence, lurking, patient, waiting for any lapse in his control.
"You feel it now," Adebáyò said, her voice calm but insistent. "The Blood chooses its wielder. It tests, it binds, it whispers. Listen to it. Every pulse, every tremor… it speaks."
Kàdàri closed his eyes briefly, tuning his senses to the current coursing through him. He could feel the whispers of the Blood, faint but insistent, like a heartbeat beneath his own. The crimson veins in Ìjè pulsed stronger in response, and he felt a clarity he had never known: the Shadowmaw could be stopped. He could stop it.
"Good," Adebáyò murmured. "Now you must prepare. Mbòri's pawns will not wait, and the pact grows stronger each night. Mastery of the Blood is not enough—you must understand it, respect it, and bend it to your will."
Kàdàri nodded again, determination solidifying in his chest. Outside, the first light of dawn touched the palace walls, brushing against the bronze and stone like fire. He had survived the night's trial, but this was only the beginning. The Shadowmaw waited, Mbòri schemed, and the Blood pulsed like a drum of war inside him.
He gripped Ìjè tightly, inhaling the crisp morning air, and for the first time, he felt a flicker of hope. He was ready.
And the Blood was ready with him.