The morning sun had climbed to its zenith by the time the third match began. The Savannah Arena, still cracked from Adebayo's seismic victory, now shimmered with the heat of the day. Brass horns sounded, long and low, calling the next fighters to the field.
The spectators pressed closer to the rails—palace nobles in embroidered linen, warriors in dust-stained garb, and pilgrims clutching charms of bone and iron. Excitement rippled through them like a living thing. This would not be an ordinary duel.
The Twins of Shira were beloved champions of the northern valleys—Mgba wrestlers known for their impossible synchronization. Their muscles glistened with palm oil, cowrie-shell belts jingling with each flex of their shoulders. Identical scars ran across their cheeks, symbols of brotherhood and devotion.
Across from them stood Amara, the youngest priestess to ever bear Obatala's golden mark. Her black robes shimmered in the sunlight, the hem brushing the dust as though it feared to stain her. Beads of coral and gold hung from her neck, glinting when she moved.
Leonotis, standing among the contestants' viewing row, leaned forward slightly. His pulse quickened.
He'd seen warriors before—brutal, proud, magnificent. But Amara was something else entirely. There was grace in her stillness, and danger in her calm. Her beauty didn't demand attention—it commanded it, like the hush before a storm.
Beside him, Low crossed her arms, unimpressed. "Stop drooling. You're embarrassing yourself."
Leonotis blinked. "I'm not drooling."
"You're leaning forward like a hungry dog."
He straightened instantly. "I just think she's… impressive."
Adebayo looked at the two of them. "If you're gossiping, gossip louder. I enjoy a good distraction before fights."
Low as Grom grunted. "We were just wondering where she came from."
Leonotis nodded.
Adebayo explained. "She's a priestess of Obatala's Reach. Obatala's Reach doesn't send weaklings. If she's here, she's carved from sacred stone." He nodded toward the arena. "Oh, let's quiet down. She's starting."
Jabara's wind carried her voice through the stands.
"By request of the people of Shira, this will be a royal challenge—two versus one. The Twins of Shira against Amara of Obatala's Reach."
The crowd cheered at the announcement, the sound rolling like thunder.
"Wait, two against one. How is that fair?" Leonotis said confused by the announcement.
Adebayo smiled at question. "Two against one? Hmph. For a priestess of Obatala, it's barely stretching."
Amara's expression didn't change. She knelt gracefully, pressing her palm to the earth. "If that is the will of the crowd, then may my Orisha witness me twice as clearly."
The Twins bowed in unison. "We will show you the strength of unity, priestess," one said.
"And we," the other added, "fight as one soul."
They struck the ground, kicking up dust, and took their stance—low and coiled, the classic Mgba readiness.
Jabara raised her hand.
"Begin!"
The first twin charged.
His movement was like thunder—fast, heavy, direct. His brother followed half a heartbeat later, attacking from the flank.
Amara moved not at all.
The first twin lunged, arms wide, intending to grapple and crush her to the ground. But just as his shadow touched her feet, Amara whispered something—a single breath, a note that hung in the air like honey.
The ground trembled.
From behind her, wings burst upward in a storm of red dust. Two great shapes unfolded—Kongamato, the winged horrors of river legends. Their leathery skin gleamed reddish-brown, their long snouts lined with needle teeth.
The crowd screamed in awe and terror.
"By the Orisha…" Leonotis breathed.
Adebayo didn't flinch. "Summoned beasts. Elemental spirits bound to her àṣẹ."
Low eyes widened. "Those things are spirits?"
"Bound by faith and blood," Adebayo replied. "And right now, they're very angry. If she can summon two, she's holding back more than she shows."
The Twins halted mid-charge as the Kongamato shrieked, wings snapping open wide enough to blot the sun. The beasts circled Amara protectively, their talons gouging furrows in the dirt.
Amara stood between them, her hands lifted. Her lips moved in silent prayer.
The first twin recovered quickly, charging again, this time feinting toward her left. The second came low from behind, sweeping her legs.
The first Kongamato dived.
Its scream tore through the air—a sound like ripping metal. Its talons raked the ground between Amara and her attackers, spraying dirt and stone. The first twin leapt back, narrowly avoiding the claws. The second rolled aside as the beast's wings slammed down, sending a shockwave through the earth.
The crowd roared.
"Fight back!" someone shouted. "You're warriors, not prey!"
The Twins regrouped. They shared a single look, then nodded.
Adebayo looked impressed. "They won't quit after seeing two Kongamato? Even the Orishas admire stubborn men."
One moved high. The other went low.
Their coordination was breathtaking—true Mgba: bodies mirroring perfectly, every motion the echo of the other. The first darted forward, trying to distract the beast with feints, while the second sprinted for Amara herself.
Amara's eyes glowed faintly gold. "Obatala… flow through me."
Her hands swept outward, palms open, drawing a sigil of light in the air. The air shimmered.
The second Kongamato surged upward, wings beating like drums, and dove toward the twin who had gone for her.
But the Twin didn't falter. He used the creature's shadow to time his leap—spinning midair to grab its neck.
The crowd gasped. He rode the beast mid-flight, muscles straining as it bucked and screamed.
He slammed his heel into its jaw. The Kongamato screeched, twisting. The Twin tried to choke it with his legs, reaching for its throat but Amara's eyes flashed.
The beast's wings folded suddenly. It dropped from the sky like a red meteor. The Twin barely managed to leap clear before it slammed into the ground, shaking the arena.
Dust swallowed them all.
When it cleared, the Twin stood panting, his brother beside him, both coated in dirt.
Amara hadn't moved an inch.
"You wrestle the air itself," she said softly. "But can you grasp what has no flesh?"
The first Kongamato lifted its head, eyes burning with Amara's light. Its body shimmered, half-fading—spirit shifting between realms.
The Twins hesitated.
Then they charged again, roaring. Their movements were ferocious, desperate. They struck together, one diving low to sweep her legs while the other lunged for her shoulders.
The beasts met them halfway.
The Kongamato moved as extensions of Amara's will. One seized the first Twin mid-leap, talons clamping around his torso. The other swooped beneath the second, striking with its tail.
The first Twin twisted free, flipping backward and landing hard, rolling into a crouch. His brother wasn't as lucky—the second Kongamato slammed him into the ground. The impact sent a ripple through the dirt.
"Brother!" the first shouted, lunging forward—only for Amara to raise her hand.
The Kongamato flared its wings, creating a gust that threw him back several paces.
The arena had become a storm of wings, dust, and divine fury.
Amara walked through it calmly, her beads swaying, her voice steady.
"Obatala, grant your child mercy for those who stand in her way."
Her light flared brighter.
The Kongamato turned their heads toward her, their glowing eyes dimming as they bowed slightly—then launched skyward.
They twisted above, circling the Twins like vultures over prey. Then, as Amara extended both arms outward, they dove.
The two spirits slammed into the ground at once.
A thunderous boom echoed across the arena, and when the dust finally cleared, the Twins lay flat on their backs, their chests heaving.
Amara stood above them, the hem of her robe fluttering in the fading wind.
The Kongamato crouched beside her, wings folded neatly, like obedient hounds awaiting command.
Jabara rose slowly from her seat, her robes stirring with unseen air. "The fight is over."
One of the Twins raised a trembling hand. "We… yield."
The other nodded, unable to rise. "You fight with Orishas at your back. We are honored to have faced such power."
Amara lowered her hands, the light fading from her skin. Her creatures dissolved into red mist, vanishing into the ether. The only evidence of them left were the gouges they'd carved into the ground.
She bowed deeply. "May your ancestors walk beside you."
The Twins returned the gesture from where they lay.
The crowd exploded in cheers—some in awe, some in fear.
"Divine power!" someone cried. "She commands the beasts of the sky!"
"Two-on-one, and she didn't even flinch!"
Adebayo nodded at th results not at all surprised. "Strength wrapped in beauty is still strength. Obatala's mark burns bright on her today."
Leonotis's eyes were wide, his pulse hammering. "That—was incredible," he whispered.
Low sighed. "You're hopeless."
"She summoned two kongamato! Did you see how she—"
"Yes," Low cut in sharply. "I saw. Everyone saw."
Leonotis turned toward her, grinning like a child. "We should go talk to her after this—like, in the tavern with the other finalists. Just to—"
"Just to what?" Low's tone sharpened.
He hesitated. "Just to get to know her. She's… she's kind of amazing."
Low rolled her eyes. "You realize this isn't a festival, right? You still have your match today."
"I know, but—"
Adebayo interrupted the exchange. "Careful, Lia. I felt it while we were out with her last night. There's something in her aura… stillness beneath a storm. It bothers me."
Grom's expression softened slightly. "Yes focus, Lia. Every one of them out there has trained their whole lives to kill."
Leonotis frowned but said nothing. His gaze drifted back to the arena, where Amara was now surrounded by attendants, the last of the dust swirling around her feet.
Low caught him staring again and muttered, "You're going to get yourself killed chasing the wrong kind of girl."
Below them, Jabara raised her hand, her voice carried by the wind once more.
"The goddess has chosen her vessel well. Victory goes to Amara of Obatala's Reach."
The drummers struck up a slow, reverent rhythm. The griots' voices rose in song:
"She who walks with wings unseen, She who prays and the air obeys."
Amara turned to the stands, bowing once more. Her eyes, bright with golden light, swept briefly across the rows of competitors—and for a fleeting moment, they met Leonotis's.
His heart skipped a beat. He couldn't tell if she'd truly looked at him or merely through him, but for that instant, he forgot to breathe.
Then she turned away, the moment gone like mist.
The Kongamato's cry echoed faintly from nowhere, as though the air itself remembered.
The drums faded. The crowd's cheers softened into reverent whispers.
And so the third battle of the day ended—
Not in blood or fury,
but in prayer and wings of fire..
The last echoes of the clash faded into the wind that swept through the palace arches, lifting the edges of King Rega's ceremonial cloak. He was breathing hard, not from exertion—he hadn't fought—but from the adrenaline of witnessing raw àṣẹ unleashed so close.
Rega wiped a bead of sweat from his brow. "Obatala's priests… I thought them calm healers," he muttered, voice thin with disbelief. "Not beast-wielding titans."
Kenya stepped in slightly ahead of him, still scanning the perimeter even though the danger had passed. Her wooden mask tilted his way. "Tradition varies from province to province, Your Majesty. Some take their duties into the battlefield."
Zuri, leaning on her spear like it was more of a walking stick than a weapon, exhaled softly. Despite her mask, Rega could practically feel her raised eyebrow. "She didn't kill them, though," she said. "She showed mercy even when she could've ended it."
Rega's jaw tightened. "Mercy… or arrogance. Hard to tell which."
"Sometimes they're the same thing," Zuri replied, the words slipping out before she fully measured them.
Rega side-eyed her sharply. Beneath the smooth wooden mask, Zuri froze.
Kenya's hand rose in the smallest gesture—two fingers tapping the shaft of her spear. A silent, practiced signal.
Zuri lowered her head, posture straightening. "Forgive my tone, Your Majesty," she said quietly.
Rega let the silence stretch a moment longer than was comfortable—just long enough to remind them he was King. Then he turned his attention back to the arena.