Some wars begin in silence. Others are born with a name on the tongue.
Chima found Alaric at dawn, standing by the river's edge. Alaric held a jar of luminous green fluid in one hand and a sliver of folded parchment in the other. The European's face was marked by a night without sleep, but his eyes… they shimmered with something new, something not entirely human anymore.
"You've been avoiding me," Chima said, his voice flat, edged with irritation.
Alaric didn't turn, his gaze fixed on the river. "I've been working."
Chima crossed the muddy bank, his feet sinking slightly, and stood beside him. The water whispered at their feet, a soft counterpoint to the tension building between the two men.
"You glow now," Chima added, his eyes narrowed as he studied the faint sigils etched into Alaric's forearms.
"Like a prophet. Or a madman."
His words dripped with a mixture of suspicion and rivalry.
"I see visions. I dream of ancient things. And I make weapons from them," Alaric stated calmly, his voice steady. He offered no further explanation, letting the words hang in the air.
Chima scoffed, a harsh, dismissive sound.
"Weapons? You speak as if you were chosen. As if you suddenly understand our ways better than we do."
His anger simmered just beneath the surface.
Alaric finally turned, his expression serious, level-headed. "Maybe I was. Maybe we both were. Perhaps the gods have a purpose for each of us in this."
"That's not what I meant," Chima snapped, his voice rising.
"You walk like you belong here. You speak Amarachi's name like it's yours to keep. Like she's a prize to be won by the cleverest onyeòcha." His jealousy flared, sharp and painful.
The words landed like thrown knives, and Alaric's jaw clenched. "She's not an object to be owned, Chima. She is a woman, with her own mind, her own spirit." He kept his voice even, refusing to let Chima's provocation drag him into an unproductive argument.
"But you want her," Chima pressed, his voice tight with accusation.
"I love her," Alaric corrected simply, his gaze unwavering.
It was a statement of fact, a truth he no longer hid.
Chima took a step closer, invading Alaric's space. "So did I. Before you came. Before your fire and science and talk of destiny. We were bound by this place. We still are. We were here, fighting for our people, long before you arrived with your foreign ideas." His voice was raw with frustrated passion, the pain of feeling replaced and overlooked.
Alaric's voice dropped to a quiet, firm warning. "Then why aren't you the one in the visions? Why did the gods choose me to see the sigils? Why do I feel her soul inside mine like it's always been there?"
He wasn't taunting Chima, but stating the undeniable reality of his spiritual connection to Amarachi and the Codex. He remained level-headed, acknowledging the mystery without becoming defensive.
For a long, tense breath, Chima said nothing. His face was a mask of conflicting emotions: anger, hurt, and a dawning, terrible realization. Then, with a sudden, violent movement, he drew his blade from his hip and plunged it into the soft mud between them, the metal sinking with a squelch. "Prove it. That you're not just another white man pretending to be a savior."
Alaric stepped back, his eyes steady on Chima. "You want to fight me?"
"I want to see what you fight for," Chima growled, his hand still on the hilt of his embedded blade.
Alaric's hand moved slowly to the satchel at his side. He pulled out a small, palm-sized disc, intricately etched with sigils and laced with dried resin. He held it up for Chima to see.
"This," he said, his voice calm, "was drawn from a dream. It reacts to blood. The blood of the corrupted, the blood of those tainted by Ezuma's magic."
With a quick, practiced motion, he sliced the edge of his own palm with a small, sharp tool and let a few drops of his blood drip onto the disc.
It ignited in a burst of brilliant violet flame—quiet, controlled, yet undeniably terrifying in its unnatural glow. The air around them crackled with unseen energy.
Chima stared, his eyes wide, a flicker of fear crossing his face. "You're using science to mimic the gods." His voice was filled with a bewildered awe and a deep-seated suspicion.
"No," Alaric said, panting slightly from the effort of the ritual, his eyes blazing with conviction. "I'm fusing them. This is alchemy. This is war. And I didn't come here to take Amarachi. I came here to save her. To save this land." He was not boasting, but explaining the profound shift within him, his acceptance of the spiritual and his clear purpose.
A heavy silence fell between them, broken only by the gentle lapping of the river water. Then Chima turned away, his shoulders taut with suppressed emotion. He stared out at the river, his back to Alaric.
"When the time comes," he said quietly, his voice gruff, "don't let her bleed alone. Or I will end you." It was a grudging acceptance, a bitter truce, and a fierce, protective warning. Despite his anger and rivalry, Chima's deepest loyalty remained with Amarachi and his people.
Alaric didn't respond with words. But he didn't need to. He understood. Because even now, across the village, he felt Amarachi stirring in her sleep—her dreams tangled in fire and memory, her spirit restless with the coming fight.
She was part of this war. And he would burn the world, if he had to, to keep her from falling again.