Yewandire was the first to stir. The dull grey hue of early morning barely filtered through the curtains, yet her thoughts had long outrun the sun. Her eyes drifted to the sleeping forms huddled around her—Orika, Ayira, and little Kenari lay nestled together on their parents' large bed, their small chests rising and falling in a rhythm that should've brought comfort. But comfort eluded her.
Last night had shaken them. The sudden, sharp scream from their children's room had jolted both her and Korusaye into wakefulness, and they had dashed down the hallway, hearts thundering like drums. Orika's trembling voice. Kenari's frightened eyes. Ayira's silent tears. All three of them were overwhelmed by something no child should have to endure—something that felt far from normal.
Yewandire ran a hand gently over Orika's forehead. The girl stirred lightly, her brows still furrowed in sleep. It wasn't just a nightmare. It couldn't be. Not with how Kenari, so little and unaware, had mirrored Orika's terror. And Ayira… Ayira had felt it too, although she hadn't seen it. The emotional imprint had left her shaken.
She turned her head and found Korusaye sitting at the edge of the bed, staring into space. His eyes bore the same worry she felt clawing at her chest.
"Koru," she whispered, reaching for his hand.
He took it instantly and brought it to his lips, his thumb grazing her knuckles. "You couldn't sleep too?"
She shook her head. "I keep thinking… what if it's starting again?"
He sighed deeply, his broad shoulders sagging. "Six years old. That's when it started last time."
Yewandire nodded. "We thought it ended for good. She hadn't had an episode in nine years."
"And back then it was never this vivid," Korusaye said, his voice low. "She was just scared. She couldn't remember what she saw."
"But now Kenari sees it too," she murmured. "He described the exact same thing. That shadow… the whispering voice…"
"And Ayira," he added. "She said she couldn't see anything but felt it. Felt everything. Fear, helplessness, and cold."
Yewandire leaned her head on his shoulder. "You think it's their blood? Our blood?"
Korusaye exhaled slowly and placed a hand on her back. "It has to be. We've always known there'd be a price."
She nodded silently, her thoughts wandering to the night she had turned to him, lost in the agony of her transition, and bitten him in desperation, her instincts begging for a connection. And Korusaye—her Korusaye—had not pulled away. He had held her as her body changed, as her soul flared with something ancient and powerful. And from that night, they had become one in a way no human words could describe.
Their love wasn't born of magic. It predated it. It had simply survived the impossible.
He turned his face to hers now, brushing his lips against her temple. "Whatever this is, we'll face it. Together."
She nodded into his shoulder, blinking away the tears. "I'm just scared."
"Me too. But we can't let them see that. Not yet. They need us to be steady. We'll figure it out. We always do."
They stayed in silence for a while, the faint glow of dawn beginning to color the edges of the room.
Eventually, Korusaye stood, careful not to disturb the children. "We should start getting ready."
Yewandire nodded and stretched, forcing her mind into gear. "I'll wake them gently in a bit."
They dressed quietly. Even as their minds swirled with worry, they moved in sync, like a practiced dance. The chaos of Lagos traffic didn't wait for magical lineage complications.
While Yewandire laid out the children's uniforms, Korusaye stepped out into the kitchen and began heating water for baths. He paused at the sight of the shirt Orika had worn the night before—drenched in sweat. A tiny frown crept across his face. He carried it to the laundry room and returned with a small bucket of water.
Minutes later, Yewandire joined him, now wearing her work clothes—a sleek Ankara top with simple brown trousers. Her brows lifted at the sight of her husband scrubbing a child's shirt.
"That bad?" she asked softly.
He nodded. "Sweat and something else. Almost like… ash. But there was no fire."
She exhaled shakily. "Let's get the kids ready for school first, we can always get back to this"
"Good idea," he said, and set the shirt aside. "Now let's wake the troops."
The next half-hour passed in a blur of breakfast, shoe buckles, braided hair, and scattered socks. Despite their attempts to act normal, the children remained subdued. Orika clung to her father longer than usual. Kenari kept glancing at his sister like he needed to be sure she was still safe. Ayira, always perceptive, watched her parents quietly.
In the car on the way to school, Korusaye tried to lighten the mood. "Alright. Who's going to make ten friends today?"
Kenari raised a hand.
Yewandire grinned. "Only ten? I was hoping for twenty, my superstar."
Kenari beamed proudly.
Orika gave a small smile. Ayira looked out the window.
Later that day, as the children walked into school and disappeared into the crowd, Yewandire held back.
"Let's call in sick today," she said. "We need to go back home. Just the two of us. Figure some things out."
Korusaye agreed immediately. He could see it in her eyes—she needed answers. And if his instincts were right, time was already running short.
As they drove back through the quiet, bustling roads of Lagos, hands clasped tightly in the center console, their thoughts returned to one haunting truth: whatever haunted their children had once touched them too.
And this time, love alone might not be enough.
But it was the only place to begin.