The flames that consumed the goat did not burn red or orange.
They burned *blue*.
Silent. Cold. Unnatural.
Villagers gathered, murmuring in terror. Some whispered prayers, others turned their eyes away.
But all of them were thinking the same thing: *"It's the boy."*
Nkosana stood in the doorway of Gogo Zanele's hut, barefoot. His shirt clung to him, soaked in sweat.
But his face? Calm. Too calm.
Behind him, the shadows danced. But the fire had already died out.
Mandla, the local prophet, stepped forward. "We must take him to the Sacred Caves," he said. "The spirits must decide if he lives."
Gogo Zanele shook her head. "The spirits already know him."
She glanced at Nkosana, whose eyes were now dark again — but unreadable. "He is not just cursed. He is *chosen* by something ancient."
That night, Nkosana had a dream. Or maybe... it was a memory.
He stood in a void. A massive throne floated before him, carved from obsidian and bone.
And something sat on it — cloaked in smoke.
The thing had no face, just a grin carved across empty space.
*"Nkosana," it said. "You are mine. And soon... they all will be."*
When he woke, he was no longer in his bed. He was standing in the graveyard.
In front of his mother's tombstone.
His fingers were covered in dirt.