The survivors returned to the village like men fleeing a fire. Their eyes were wide, their breaths ragged, their feet stumbling as if the earth itself sought to trip them. One dropped his bow along the path and never turned back to fetch it. Another clutched his ribs where Kunle's strike had landed, each step a struggle against pain. By the time they reached the first huts, their cries had already stirred the sleeping dogs, and soon the whole village was awake.
"They are not human!" the hunter gasped, falling to his knees. His voice cracked, but it carried far in the midnight stillness. "Kunle caught an arrow with his hand. With his hand!"
"They cannot be killed," another spat, trembling. "Blades cannot touch them. He laughed at us—laughed!"
Their words spread like fire through dry grass. Women pulled their children into huts, slamming doors and latching windows. Men gripped spears and machetes, their knuckles white, their mouths tight. Fear crawled through every alley, every courtyard, filling the night with its bitter smoke.
By the iroko tree, a crowd gathered in haste. Torches lit faces twisted with terror and anger. At the center stood Adewale, his voice rising above the frightened chorus.
"Do you see?" he thundered, his staff striking the earth. "Did I not warn you? Did I not tell you what they were becoming? You called them children—our children. But I say no! They are no longer ours. They are beasts wearing the skin of men. And if we do not act, the oath will devour us all!"
The crowd roared with approval. Some wept, others shook with fury, but all were carried by his words.
Then Elder Ojo stepped forward, his staff heavier tonight than ever before. "And what would you have us do, Adewale?" he asked. His voice was steady, but his eyes revealed the storm inside. "You call them beasts, but they are cursed, not cursed-born. Would you strike your own kin because you fear what binds them?"
"They struck first," Adewale spat. "The villagers went to protect us, and they returned broken and shamed. Blood was spilled—tonight, by tomorrow, it may be your blood, Ojo, or the blood of your children. Mercy has no place where the curse walks. We must burn this evil out before it spreads."
The crowd surged again, their chants rising, their fists shaking. "Burn it out! Burn it out!"
Ojo raised his hand, but fewer heeded him now. His words fell like pebbles against the tide. Fear had taken root too deeply, watered by Adewale's fire. For the first time in his long life, the elder felt the weight of his authority slip from his grasp.
Far from the chants, in the dark clearing where the attack had failed, the oath-bearers sat in silence.
Ife wept quietly, her hands covering her face. The villagers' hatred, the violence, Kunle's rage—it had all crashed down on her like waves on a drowning body. "They hate us," she whispered between sobs. "They will never see us as their own again. We are cursed. We are lost."
Sola knelt beside her, his hand hovering but never touching, afraid even his comfort might not reach her through her despair. "No, Ife. We are still who we were. They are afraid, but fear blinds. We must endure. We cannot give in to the darkness."
Kunle laughed from where he sat, leaning against a tree with his arms folded. His laughter was not warm—it was sharp, hollow, carrying an edge that made Ife flinch.
"Endure?" he scoffed. "You speak of endurance, Sola, as though their blades were flowers and their arrows were songs. They came to kill us. They came with fire in their eyes and death in their hands. And you still beg for their forgiveness?"
Sola turned, anger flickering in his gaze. "Because if we give them blood, Kunle, we become the curse. We become exactly what they fear."
Kunle's eyes gleamed, catching the faint moonlight. "And what if we already are? Did you not feel it tonight? The strength in your veins? The whispers guiding your steps? I felt it. And it was glorious. They cannot kill us. We are more than them now. Why should we bow before their fear?"
Ife shook her head violently, her sobs breaking into gasps. "No, Kunle. Don't say that. Please don't."
But Kunle only closed his eyes and smiled. The oath pulsed in his chest like a second heartbeat, and he welcomed it.
Sola looked at him, despair gnawing at his resolve. The whispers tugged at him too—he could not deny it. But where Kunle saw power, Sola saw chains. Each pulse, each word in the dark, felt like a thread binding him tighter. And though he tried to resist, doubt began to creep in.
By dawn, the village was a cauldron. Smoke rose from cooking fires, but it mingled with the smoke of torches carried from hut to hut, weapons clutched in eager hands. Mothers hushed their children, speaking of curses and monsters in voices meant to scare them into silence. The hunters sharpened their arrows. The blacksmith's hammer rang longer than usual, sparks spitting like angry spirits.
Elder Ojo stood at the edge of the square, watching, heart heavy. He could see the ashes of trust scattered everywhere—ashes that no wind could gather again.
"They will not listen," he murmured to himself. "Not to me, not to reason. The fire has caught."
Behind him, Adewale rallied men by the dozens, his voice hoarse but strong, his words stoking every fear into flame. He spoke of the dead villager, of Kunle's inhuman strength, of the oath's whispers carried on the wind. "Strike now," he urged, "before the curse grows stronger. Strike, and save what remains!"
And the villagers listened.
That night, the oath-bearers sat in their clearing once more. Silence hung between them, heavy as stone. Ife lay curled on her mat, her sobs spent, her eyes empty. Sola sat with his head bowed, his thoughts a war of guilt and resolve. Kunle sharpened a stone, his smile cold, his eyes fixed on nothing.
Then, faint and low, the whispers came again. Not only in their minds now, but in the air itself, brushing against the trees, slipping through the grass, humming through the soil.
They hate you. They will come again. They will never stop. Strike first. Strike deep. Become what you were meant to be.
The three sat in silence, each hearing, each feeling the truth of the words. The oath no longer whispered from within—it spoke from e
verywhere.
And above them, the moon rose red, heavy and watching.