The trees surrounding Nkosana's village no longer swayed with the wind—they pulsed, as if breathing with some ancient force. That night, he awoke not from a nightmare, but because of a voice. Not loud. Not human. A whisper that slithered into his mind like a cold snake: *"Come below. Your blood remembers."*
Unable to resist, he slipped out of bed and walked barefoot through the misty field behind his grandmother's hut. The earth beneath his feet grew warmer as he approached the withered tree known as the Ancestral Root.
A low rumble echoed as the ground split open at its base, revealing a spiral staircase of stone descending into blackness.
He hesitated.
Then took the first step.
As he descended, memories not his own flooded his thoughts—visions of wars fought by demons, of kings sacrificing their sons to ancient beings, of a masked figure who wielded shadows like blades. Nkosana recognized the mask.
It was the one he saw in the mirror the night his powers first awakened.At the bottom, he entered a chamber glowing with red runes. In the center stood a throne made of bone. On it sat a woman, draped in darkness, her eyes blacker than night.
"You are late," she said, her voice chilling. "Your seed has sprouted, and the world must now bleed."