He walked for a long while through the quiet parts of town until the streetlights began to dim into mist. The night air carried that faint earthy scent that always came before dawn. He stopped at the usual crossroads where he'd once met the yeye agba, scanning the shadows for any sign of her.
Minutes passed. Nothing.
Tolu exhaled sharply, hands buried in his pockets. "Guess she's not coming," he muttered to himself. Still, something told him not to leave. He sat by a cracked stone near an abandoned shrine, eyes half-focused on the flickering candle left from some forgotten offering.
Time crawled. The crickets grew louder. He leaned back against the stone, fighting off the heaviness in his eyelids—until finally, sleep slipped in without warning.
A light tap on his shoulder pulled him back.
He blinked awake to see a young girl, no older than ten, staring at him with calm, knowing eyes. She wore a faded white dress and was barefoot, her feet dusted with earth.
"Follow me," she said softly.
Tolu frowned, rubbing his eyes. "Who are you?"
The girl didn't answer—just turned and began to walk into the forest path behind the shrine. Something about her voice, the stillness around her, made his instincts flare. Not danger, but weight.
Tolu hesitated only a moment before sighing and rising to his feet. "Alright then… lead the way."
He followed her, the silence between them thick, only the crunch of leaves beneath their feet echoing as dawn began to crawl faintly into the horizon.
---
The young girl led him deeper into the forest — the air grew heavy, thick with the scent of herbs, smoke, and damp earth. Strange markings glowed faintly on the trees as they passed, their light pulsing like slow heartbeats.
Then, the trees opened into a small clearing where a hut stood — old, circular, and breathing with a quiet kind of power. Smoke rose lazily from a clay pot by the entrance, carrying a faint sweet-bitter aroma that made Tolu's instincts stir.
And there, standing at the doorway, was the yeye agba.
She was nothing like he expected — tall, regal, and composed, her dark braided hair adorned with golden beads that glimmered like captured sunlight. Her skin glowed softly under the moonlight, and her eyes held centuries of quiet knowledge.
She wore a flowing black robe that wrapped around her frame like shadow made silk, tied at the waist with a braided cord of gold and crimson tassels. Around her neck hung layered necklaces of brass and carved wood, charms that seemed to hum faintly as she moved.
Tolu froze at the sight — the air around her carried an energy that was both calm and overwhelming.
The little girl stepped aside without a word, and the yeye agba's gaze shifted to Tolu. A faint smile touched her lips, one that didn't quite reach her eyes.
> "I've been expecting you, Tolu," she said, her voice smooth and deep — the kind that could hush storms.
She turned and gestured for him to enter.
> "Come in. The blood you carry has been restless for too long."
---
The yeye agba nodded slowly, the beads in her hair clicking softly as she leaned back in her seat. The low orange glow from the oil lamps danced across her face, making her look half spirit, half woman.
> "I know you have a lot of questions, Tolu," she began, her voice steady, calm — the kind that demanded silence. "And I know you don't understand everything that's happening to you. But I'll explain it to you."
She folded her hands on her lap.
> "You are an ancient wolf, and that alone carries meaning. Your ancestors were among the first — powerful beyond measure. They ruled these lands long before the wolves you know now learned to howl. They were the Ajewale, one of the five great wolf families."
Tolu's heart thudded. "Ajewale?" he repeated.
> "Yes," she said, eyes narrowing slightly. "That is your true name — your true blood. I doubt your father ever knew. None of your line since that day have. And you wouldn't either, if you hadn't been turned."
Tolu swallowed, leaning forward slightly. "Then… why was it sealed? Why hide something like that?"
The yeye agba's expression darkened, her gaze turning inward as if she were seeing a memory older than words.
> "Because of betrayal," she said softly. "A family — wolves who could not stand the order of things — conspired with another creature. They wanted to end the ancient hierarchy. And though your family was few, they were feared. The Ajewale bloodline only ever bore one child per generation — four members at most, one from each age. When they came, your ancestors fought, but the numbers were too great."
She sighed, voice low but sharp.
> "The eldest — the great-grandfather of your great-great-grandfather — watched his son and grandson die before him. He took the last child, a newborn, and fled here. He came to my predecessor, begged her to protect the child. She sealed his powers to hide him, to let the bloodline live on quietly."
Her eyes gleamed.
> "He left… and drew their attention. Killed many before they finally brought him down. They knew where the child was, but they dared not trespass on our land. So they let the Ajewale line fade — or so they thought."
The room went silent. Only the sound of firewood cracking filled the air.
> "Now," she said, "they'll hear of you. Word spreads fast, even among beasts. So you must build your pack, and you must build it well."
Tolu frowned. "What happened to their pack — the Ajewale's wolves?"
> "Divided," she said bitterly. "Some slaughtered, some fled, and others bound into service of rival bloodlines. The ancient packs are gone. You, Tolu, are the last thread of that line."
Her gaze sharpened, studying him like one might study a spark before it becomes a fire.
> "Tell me… have you turned anyone yet?"
Tolu nodded. "One."
> "A girl?"
He nodded again.
The yeye agba's lips curved slightly, almost in amusement.
> "Then you've already begun," she said. "You noticed it, didn't you? Her power. Her difference."
Tolu's brows drew together. "Her claws— they burn. Red hot."
> "Exactly." She smiled faintly. "That is your blood expanding. The power that was sealed for generations is awake again — stretching itself after a long sleep. It's good news for you. Your betas will not be ordinary. Each will carry a sliver of your heritage — special abilities that will make them stronger, more adaptable."
She leaned forward, her eyes glinting.
> "You could turn ten, maybe more — and each will be a lesser ancient, born from you. That's your strength. That's your destiny."
The fire crackled louder for a moment, and the air grew heavy.
> "But be careful, Ajewale," she said finally, her tone low and warning. "Power that was buried doesn't rise quietly. Those who buried it will feel it — and they will come."