The sunlight streamed through the canopy like molten gold, breaking across the leaves of the Forest Arena—a ring of soft soil framed by towering baobab and acacia trees. The murmuring crowd fell into a hush as the drummers changed rhythm, their sticks striking goat-skin with a quick, tight beat that echoed through the jungle clearing.
At the center of the ring stood two figures—Zola, the Engolo prodigy, and Ukenge the Spear Saint, the warrior known for his flawless technique.
Low whistled as Zola and Ukenge took their positions.
"Alright. Place your bets. I got Zola."
Jacqueline didn't look away from the arena. "You only say that because she fights upside-down."
"She fights upside-down well," Low corrected smugly. "That makes her cool."
The air between them pulsed with tension.
Zola lowered herself into her stance, one hand touching the ground, the other raised loosely in rhythm with her breath. Her spine bent like a reed. Her head tilted slightly, her eyes half-lidded—not with arrogance, but with focus.
Ukenge stood tall, spear angled low, his feet buried in the soft earth. His breathing was slow, deliberate. The sunlight caught the polished brass fittings of his spear and made them glow like tiny suns.
The High Seer Jabara raised her hand.
"Zola of Engolo. Ukenge of the Eastern Plains.
May the Orisha witness this clash of art and death."
He dropped his hand. "Begin."
The moment hung like a held breath.
Then Zola moved.
Her first step was a sway, a dancer's glide, the dust curling around her feet. Ukenge mirrored her, circling slowly. His spear traced invisible sigils in the air, measuring distance.
Zola smiled faintly and vanished into motion.
She dove low, flipped into a handstand, and spun, her heel slicing through the air. The move was too fast for most to follow. Ukenge barely caught the attack, twisting his spear to intercept the kick. The crack of contact echoed through the trees.
The rebound sent Zola into another rotation. She flowed seamlessly, twisting her hips midair and bringing her opposite leg around. Ukenge ducked, sweeping his spear across the ground to knock her off balance.
She landed, pivoted, and cartwheeled backward into distance, laughing under her breath.
"Fast hands," she called. "But slow feet."
Ukenge's mouth quirked into a smile. "You mistake patience for weakness."
He lunged.
His first thrust was a blur. Zola bent back at an impossible angle, the spearhead slicing through a lock of her hair. The second strike came immediately, sweeping up from below. She caught it with her shin, the impact ringing like metal on wood.
Leonotis inhaled sharply. "He's fast—she almost lost more than hair there."
"Almost," Low echoed. "Keyword: almost."
Jacqueline's eyes narrowed. "Watch his footing. He hasn't even opened his style yet."
Their movements became a rhythm. Attack, counter, sweep, twist—each exchange building on the last, like two musicians finding the same song from opposite sides of the stage.
The drums grew faster.
Zola ducked, spun, and let her hands kiss the ground. Her body became a wheel of motion, the dance of the inverted. Her legs whirled like blades. Her kicks came not from anger but from rhythm, from breath.
The crowd leaned forward, hypnotized.
Ukenge was the first to break formation. He vaulted backward, slammed the butt of his spear into the dirt, and called out to Ogun under his breath. A faint shimmer of heat rippled around him as his àṣẹ awakened.
The spear's shaft gleamed with golden light.
Leonotis leaned back instinctively. "That's… Ogun's blessing?"
Jacqueline nodded. "A mild invocation. It looks to me like he's holding back."
Low stared. "THAT is holding back?!"
Zola felt it immediately—the sharp shift in the air, the way heat rolled off him like a mirage. She exhaled slowly, grounding herself.
Her own light àṣẹ flickered along her wrists and ankles, the golden threads glowing brighter.
"Let's dance properly then," she murmured.
Low whispered, "She's shining."
Leonotis nodded.
Jacqueline's lips tightened. "It's not purely Oshun. Something else is answering."
Ukenge struck fast.
The spear's tip blurred through the air, each thrust precise enough to cut sunlight. He didn't just attack—he painted patterns, arcs of lethal geometry that boxed her in.
Leonotis whispered, "He's cutting the air cleanly."
Jacqueline: "That's Ukenge. His efficiency is like his religion."
Zola weaved through the storm.
Each dodge was a spin, each block a flourish. Her hands and feet never stopped moving. Even when she evaded, her body swayed to the drumbeat. Her breath and the rhythm were one.
When Ukenge thrust again, she dropped into a split, the spearhead passing inches above her. She kicked up, catching the spear midshaft, twisting it aside with her heel, and used that momentum to push into a cartwheel.
Her heel flashed with light.
The crowd gasped as the kick connected with Ukenge's ribs. The force sent him sliding back several paces, boots carving trenches in the earth.
Leonotis smiled. "She's incredible."
But he didn't fall.
Instead, he planted his spear deep into the soil and used it as a lever to spin around it, hurling himself forward in a sweeping arc. The spear became a living extension of his will—a serpent striking from every angle.
Jacqueline nodded. "Now he's stopped holding back."
Zola ducked, rolled, flipped over a low sweep. Dust exploded beneath her palms as she launched into a back handspring. The spear cut through the air beside her like thunder.
She landed in a crouch, light blazing around her. Her àṣẹ surged outward—sunlight refracting from her skin. The arena filled with shimmering rays.
Everyone watching Zola a little too closely had to shield their eyes.
Leonotis turned his eyes away. "It's like looking at the sun."
Low grinned. "Glow harder, girl!"
Jacqueline whispered, "This… this is new."
Ukenge shielded his eyes. "Tricks," he hissed.
"No," Zola said, standing, her voice calm. "Art."
Her next move was blinding.
Zola leapt into a spinning handstand, her legs a cyclone of motion. Her glowing skin caught the sun and refracted it. The light became shards—mirrors that multiplied her form.
There was only one real Zola, but it looked like five more appeared.
Low: "Oh, he's DEAD."
Leonotis: "How is she doing that?! Are they—"
Jacqueline: "Mirrors. Light refraction. Orisha-touched. It's brilliant."
The crowd erupted into shouts. "Illusions!" "Mirrors of light!" "Oshun's grace!"
Ukenge hesitated for half a heartbeat. That was all she needed.
She twisted through her mirrored doubles, each reflection mimicking her exact timing, her rhythm, her breath. To the human eye, it was impossible to tell which was real.
He thrust at one—missed. The image shattered into dust and light.
He spun, stabbed another—missed again.
Low was getting excited. "Hah! Wrong one! Wrong one again!"
Leonotis swallowed. "He's panicking."
And then the real Zola struck.
Her heel connected with his temple in mid-turn. The impact echoed like a drumbeat. Ukenge staggered back, his spear dropping from his hands.
Low leaned in. "…Did you hear that crack?"
Leonotis nodded. "I felt it."
Jacqueline's voice softened. "It's over."
Before he could recover, she was behind him. Her movement so fluid it was as though gravity itself bent to accommodate her.
He pivoted, raising his arm to block—but her leg was already there, coiled around his wrist, twisting.
He dropped to one knee.
Zola slid down his arm, her motion a silken ribbon, and stopped with her heel pressed lightly against his chest—right above his heart.
The light dimmed. The reflections faded.
The only sound was the ragged breath of two warriors.
Ukenge looked up at her, chest rising and falling, eyes wide. Then, slowly, a smile spread across his face.
"You… dance like the sun itself," he murmured.
Zola's heel lowered to the dirt. She straightened, bowing low in respect.
"And you fight like the dawn," she replied.
He laughed softly. "Then I suppose it's fitting that I yield to the light."
Ukenge raised his hand. "I yield."
Low sat back, arms stretched behind her head. "Told you. Called it from the start."
"You only call things after they happen," Jacqueline muttered.
Leonotis stared at the ring, breath caught. "She's… unreal."
Low side-eyed Leonotis. "So what you gonna have a crush on every girl in the tournament?"
"No, she's just really good," Leonotis said defensively.
Jacqueline looked at him carefully. "Learn from her footwork. Her transitions. Her breathing. Everything."
Low nodded vigorously. "We may have to fight her one day."
The drumming ceased.
For a moment, silence reigned. Then the crowd roared to life. The noise hit like a physical force—cheers, whistles, chants of "Zola! Zola!" erupting through the amphitheater.
The light around her skin shimmered once more before fading entirely, leaving her standing in simple human grace, sweat-damp and breathing hard.
Jabara stood, robes stirring in the wind.
"Victory," she declared, his voice amplified by his wind-born àṣẹ. "Belongs to Zola of Engolo. May her dance honor the Orisha who shaped the sun."
The griots struck their drums again—slower now, reverent.
"She who fights as light incarnate, She who bends the day to her rhythm."
Zola bowed deeply toward the crowd, then toward her fallen opponent.
Ukenge gathered his spear, planting it beside him as he knelt in salute. "Your ancestors must be proud, little one."
She smiled, her eyes soft. "They dance with me every time I move."
As the crowd's cheers echoed into the forest, a lone breeze passed through the trees, scattering leaves and dust into sunlight. The golden motes drifted upward, catching in Zola's hair.
For that single instant, she looked almost divine. A girl not made of flesh, but of motion and light.
Jabara watched her from her dais, one hand on her chin, the faintest crease between her brows.
"Engolo," she murmured. "The dance of spirit and body. But her light… it answers something older."
Below her, Silas leaned against the railing, his expression unreadable. The faint shimmer of black àṣẹ rippled under his skin like oil beneath water.
Zola exited the ring to a thunder of voices.
And when the sunlight struck her back one last time, it cast her shadow long across the sand. A shadow that looked almost alive, and far darker than light should ever make.
The Dance of the Sunlight had ended. The crowd cheered. The drums quieted.
But in the heart of the arena, the dust still glowed faintly as though the forest itself remembered her steps.
The roar of the crowd was still fading when Jacqueline leaned forward in her seat, eyes fixed on the arena where Zola's shimmering afterimage was only now dissipating. Sunlight filtered through the canopy above, glinting off the settling dust like falling stars.
Leonotis, hidden beneath the hood of Lia, exhaled slowly.
"She moved like she wasn't even touching the ground," he muttered. "How do you fight somebody who doesn't stay still?"
Low snorted. "I don't know if you could take her. You'll just pray she gets bored and leaves you alone."
Jacqueline turned to them, her expression serious despite the cheers still echoing through the trees.
"Zola's not even the scariest fighter today," she said quietly. "The next match… that's the one you two really need to pay attention to."
Leonotis stiffened. "Who's up?"
Jacqueline glanced toward one of the forest paths feeding into the arena. Her breath caught.
"Oh no," she whispered.
Low followed her gaze—and jolted.
A shape was walking up the steps toward their section. A familiar shape. Lean, strong, wrapped in fresh bandages from the earlier fight.
Adebayo.
Low hissed. "Of all places—now?!"
Leonotis pulled his hood lower, his heart pounding.
"He sees us sitting together, he'll recognize us for sure—"
Jacqueline snapped, already standing. "You two just—just be Grom and Lia. Grumpy. Quiet. Strange."
Low glared. "We're always that."
"And don't speak in your normal voices," Jacqueline added, already backing away.
Adebayo's gaze swept the stands. He spotted them—well, spotted Grom and Lia—and lifted a hand in greeting.
He was smiling.
Low whispered, "He's coming over. He's actually coming—"
Jacqueline touched Leonotis's shoulder. "Remember, you're a quiet girl. So just try not to talk so much."
Then she slipped into the crowd and vanished just as Adebayo reached their row.
Adebayo stopped in front of them, hands on hips, breathing lightly despite the bruising along his ribs. "Mind if I sit with you?" he asked, warm and earnest.
Low, still trying to keep her voice low and gravelly, managed, "Uh… sure?"
Leonotis nodded like he imagined a shy girl named Lia might. "Seat's… free."
Adebayo laughed and took the spot beside them.
"Great view from here," he said. "Should be a good match."
Low and Leonotis exchanged a sideways glance of barely-contained panic beneath their disguises.
Adebayo leaned back, completely at ease.
"I like watching with company," he said. "You didn't drink with us last night but I still think you two are good people."
Low swallowed.
Leonotis forced a nod.
Adebayo smiled wider.
And Jacqueline—hidden in the crowd—watched from afar, silently praying they wouldn't blow their cover in the next five minutes.