The sky suddenly turned dark and gloomy, its heavy, roiling clouds and the soft, sinister whisper of the breeze announced the coming rain. Yet Kosi remained unmoved not undisturbed. In his heart, what truly mattered had already been lost – his love, his people, and his hometown. As hours turned to day and day to night, he gathered the bodies of his fallen brethren. His sole desire was to bestow upon these men, women, and children an eulogy worthy of the Okoye tradition and lineage.
Amid the ruins, Kosi began an ancient ritual that honored every soul lost in battle, a ritual as old as the clan. With deliberate care, he sliced his own palm, letting his blood drip upon the carefully arranged materials destined for the pyre, before it been lit. In that solemn act, he sought to transform the nature of the fire – from a mere destroyer to a force of transformation and life – imbuing it with a sacred power to cleanse and renew.
"Kosi, an Okoye never shows his back to the enemy," he murmured to himself, recalling the ancient creed. His people were the proud descendants of Ajana – the dreaded calamity – and offsprings ofMbanaso, the lightning cloud. "Okoyes – he shouted , you have lived with honor, but you have died through treachery and deceit. May the unquenchable fire that united us, molded us, and warmed our hearts now consume our bodies. One who has lived as a warrior must depart as one. He who dies as warrior must be buried as one."
Rain began to fall, and thunder shook the heavens. Kosi knelt among the fallen, tracing the jagged edges of armor, torn fabrics, and shattered shields. These were not just warriors – they were his brothers, cousins, friends, companions bound by blood and loyalty. He paused at the face of a young girl, perhaps no older than twelve, her eyes frozen in eternal surprise. Kosi's throat tightened, but the fire of vengeance within him transformed grief into a purposeful, sacred energy.
Then, the ritual took on a life of its own. Kosi began to move in circles around the fallen, his acrobatic steps a rhythmic drumbeat that seemed to awaken the earth itself. Dancers emerged from the smoke, their movements sharp and flowing, arms rising and falling like the wings of spirits. Their bodies traced the sigils of protection and passage in the air, leaving invisible trails of energy that shimmered under the moonlight.
Kosi raised his voice, chanting in the language of the forebears:
"O you who walk the path unseen,
O guardians of the spear and shield,
Receive these offerings of breath, blood, and song.
Rise beyond the realm of mortal sorrow,
Join the stars, eternal in their watch.
That which is dead may never die."
The rain hissed against the flames he carefully coaxed into being, but the ritual did not falter nor move an inch. Each chant, each motion, became a bridge between the living and the dead, a sacred declaration that the fallen Okoye would not be forgotten. From the pyres rose a thin silver mist, coiling around the dancers and Kosi himself, giving form to the spirits of the dead. Their ghostly shapes moved in rhythm with the living, guardians once bound to earth now ascending, immortalized by the honor and power of the ceremony.
Hours passed as he worked, yet the sun never seemed to pierce the heavy clouds above. Kosi's muscles ached, his back protested due to the extensive labor , and his hands bled from the sharp edges of the fallen, yet he moved with unrelenting determination. The loss of his clan was a wound deeper than any sword could carve. Yet still, he rose, because the living could not afford despair – not when vengeance waited in the wings.
Suddenly, the rhythmic pounding of hooves broke through the mournful sound of rain. Kosi's hand tightened around the hilt of his sword, senses alert, muscles coiled like springs ready to strike. From the mist emerged a contingent of riders, their armor drenched in rain, banners heavy with water. The lead rider pulled back his hood, revealing a familiar face: Aoundaver, son of Sefa, a brother-in-arms who had shared both triumphs and trials with Kosi before the fall of the Okoye clan.
"Kosi! Kosi!" Aoundaver's voice rang across the field, a mixture of relief, concern, and urgency. "By the gods, are you alive?"
Kosi's eyes, dark with grief yet sharpened by determination, met his friend's. "Aoundaver… where were you when my family, my people… all of the Okoye, were cut down?" His voice shook, though he did not lower his blade. Each word was a shard of pain coming from his throbbing heart , each breath a reminder of what had been stolen from him.
Aoundaver dismounted, rain plastering his hair to his face. "I was delayed, my friend, but not absent. One-third of my men fell on the journey here, and yet, by the mercy of the gods, I have managed to gather what remains of your kin. They are safe for now, hidden in a fortified camp across the plains."
Kosi's fists clenched, knuckles white against the hilt of his sword. Relief mixed with rage and sorrow, creating a storm inside him as fierce as any tempest outside. "Safe?" he echoed, voice low and harsh. "And yet the rest… all the rest…" His gaze swept the battlefield, lingering on the twisted remains of his clan. "You bring me hope… but it does little to fill the void left behind. A lot of my people have died. What a shame the Okoye clan simply vanquished"
Aoundaver's expression softened. "I understand your pain, Kosi. But despair will not bring them back. It will not give you strength for what is to come. There is a path forward, one that must be taken alone if necessary."
The words landed with weight, but Kosi did not immediately respond. His eyes remained on the horizon, where the remnants of smoke and ash blended with the clouds above. Finally, he spoke, voice quieter now, imbued with a simmering determination he has possessed long ago from his youth . "I have been betrayed by gods, abandoned by fate… yet I am alive. That alone gives me a chance." He paused, letting the rain wash over him as though to cleanse the remnants of sorrow from his skin. "And I will take it."
Aoundaver nodded, understanding more than words could convey. "Then let us speak of the way forward. You cannot remain here, not when vengeance and justice call. There are those who can guide you, those who understand the old ways, the secrets of the Nine Realms… and perhaps, they can prepare you for what lies ahead."
Kosi finally lowered his sword, his gaze lingering on the fallen one last time. "Do whatever you want , guide me if you will," he said softly, "but I will walk this path. My hands will be stained with blood, my heart burdened, yet I will rise. Let the gods see the monster they made"
Along the way, they encountered others: soldiers who had survived the chaos, villagers who had fled, and scholars of forgotten lore who carried knowledge too dangerous for mortal eyes. Among them was Njoku, the last captain of the Okoye forces, who had safeguarded a remnant of Kosi's people. His loyalty was unshakable, his resolve tempered by the fires of survival.
"My prince," Njoku said, bowing low, "we are yours to command. Though we are few, our hearts remain with the Okoye."
Kosi nodded once, sharply. He did not yet call himself an Odogwu; that title would come later, born from both action and recognition. For now, he was simply a survivor, a son of a fallen clan, and a man with fire in his chest that refused to be quenched.
"Then we move," he said. "We honor the dead by living, by preparing for the trials ahead. There is much work to be done, and little time to falter."
Night fell, and with it came a silence chosen rather than imposed. The battlefield behind them was nothing more than a memory, yet Kosi carried it as a weight, a teacher, and a promise. He whispered the names of those who had fallen, letting each syllable fuel his resolve:
"Chima… Obi… Ife… Nneka… You all will be avenged."
Above, the stars pierced the darkness, silent witnesses to the journey of a prince whose destiny had been stolen, yet whose courage remained unbroken. The path was uncertain.
The gods were silent. But Kosi, son of the Okoye, survivor of betrayal, had begun the first step toward reclaiming what had been lost – and in that step lay the spark of a fire that could one day consume even the heavens themselves.