Months passed, but Zàfara did not forget.
Stone by stone, Akàra rebuilt itself from the scars left by Mbòri's war. Burned homes rose again, walls reforged, watchtowers repaired. Life returned in cautious steps, markets reopened, children's laughter echoed once more through narrow streets, and the scent of cooking fires replaced that of ash. Yet beneath the surface, something lingered. A tension woven into daily routines. A pause before celebration. A memory that refused to fade.
Kàdàri walked those streets every day.
Ìjè rested at his hip, its presence unmistakable. The sword no longer pulsed wildly as it once had, but it was never truly silent. It hummed faintly, like a living thing aware of the world around it. People noticed. Conversations softened when he passed. Heads dipped, not in fear, but in respect.
Guardian.
The title followed him like a shadow. He did not ask for it, but he carried it all the same.
As evening settled, Kàdàri climbed the outer wall of Tùwò, the ancient grove overlooking Akàra. From here, the city looked calm. Lanterns glowed warmly. Smoke curled lazily into the sky. Too calm.
Zàra sat atop the stone ledge, legs dangling over the edge, sharpening a knife with slow, deliberate strokes. The sound of metal against stone cut through the quiet.
"You're late," she said without looking up.
"I was walking," Kàdàri replied. "People stop me now."
Zàra smirked. "That's what happens when you save a city."
She slid the blade back into its sheath and finally met his eyes. Her expression shifted, sharp, alert.
"Hènta's back."
Kàdàri stopped short. "Mbòri's scarface?"
Zàra nodded. "Same scars. Same eyes. She didn't come to bow."
His hand moved instinctively toward Ìjè. "Why now?"
"She says Ògùrù hid something before he died."
The name tightened Kàdàri's jaw. "What kind of something?"
Before Zàra could answer, a shadow detached itself from the archway behind them.
Hènta stepped forward.
She looked thinner, harder. Fresh scars crossed her forearms, her jaw set in the same defiant angle Kàdàri remembered. Her eyes gleamed with the familiar mix of confidence and danger.
"A relic," she said. "Called the Devourer's Tooth."
The words settled heavily in the air.
Kàdàri turned fully toward her. "Explain."
Hènta crossed her arms. "Ògùrù never planned to stop with the Shadowmaw. The Tooth was meant for the next hunger. A way to bind it. Control it."
Zàra snorted. "And he failed at that too."
Hènta's lips twitched. "Failure doesn't make the relic harmless."
Adebáyò summoned them to the grove before more could be said.
The Oracle listened in silence as Hènta spoke, moonlight filtering through ancient leaves. When she finished, Adebáyò's face was grave.
"If Mbòri possessed such an artifact," he said, "its absence is not comfort. It is danger."
Kàdàri clenched his fists. "Where is it?"
Hènta shrugged. "Still in Mbòri. Hidden. Guarded."
Zàra smiled thinly. "Then we know where we're going."
They crossed into Mbòri before dawn.
The city was a corpse.
Charred buildings loomed like broken teeth. Ash coated the ground. Shadows stretched unnaturally long, clinging to ruined walls as if unwilling to let go. The silence pressed in, heavy and watching.
"This place hates us," Zàra whispered.
Kàdàri nodded. "It remembers."
Hènta led them through collapsed corridors into a hidden chamber beneath Ògùrù's former throne room. The air grew colder with every step. Heavier. Ìjè vibrated faintly at his side.
"A trap," Zàra warned.
It sprang instantly.
Ghūls poured from the darkness, twisted remnants of hunger and shadow. Hènta fired without hesitation. Zàra moved like a blade unleashed. Kàdàri stepped forward, Ìjè igniting with blue fire.
The sword sang.
When silence returned, ash drifted slowly to the floor.
Hènta tossed him a small pouch. "Don't touch it."
Kàdàri opened it anyway.
A crystal shard pulsed inside, alive with hunger. The air warped around it.
A whisper slid into his mind.
Yours.
Adebáyò's distant voice cut through the moment.
"Seal it. Now."
Kàdàri closed the pouch.
The hunt was over.
The danger had only begun.