The sun barely crested the horizon over the spires of Akàra, spilling molten gold onto the dusty streets where shadows stretched long and restless, twisting like spirits unwilling to release their grasp on the night. The city stirred in its familiar rhythm, vendors raising canvas awnings, guards pacing the gates with spears resting against their shoulders, merchants calling out early wares scented with spice and oil, but beneath the routine hummed something unnatural. The air felt taut, electric, as though the kingdom itself held its breath.
Something was coming.
High above the city walls, banners fluttered in the dawn breeze, their symbols, sun disks and ancestral glyphs, glowing faintly as light kissed their fabric. Even the birds circled lower than usual, cries sharp and uneasy. Old men muttered prayers. Mothers drew children closer. Zàfara had known peace before, but never ignorance; the land remembered every age of fire and shadow.
And it remembered now.
At the heart of Akàra, hidden from marble and stone, lay the sacred grove of Tùwò, a place older than the city, older even than the throne. Silver-leaved trees stood in solemn circles, their trunks etched with runes that no living scholar could fully translate. Roots broke through the earth like veins, pulsing faintly with power drawn from the deep bones of the world. The air carried a hum, subtle but insistent, vibrating with the memory of every ritual ever performed here.
Upon a stone altar lay the Oracle.
Her name was Adebáyò, spoken across the kingdom with reverence and fear. Keeper of secrets. Guardian of the ancient pact. Interpreter of visions that stretched across centuries like a woven tapestry of blood and fate. Her white robes were faintly tarnished by ochre and ash, symbols of communion with forces far beyond mortal reach.
She slept, but not as mortals slept.
Her dreams burned.
The gods came to her not as voices but as pressure, as heat behind the eyes, as memories that were not her own. She saw fire swallowed by shadow. Cities sinking beneath blackened skies. A child standing at the edge of ruin, blood glowing like molten gold beneath his skin.
Then the words came, sharp as a blade drawn across her soul.
"The Blood stirs. Shadow looms. Find Kàdàri."
Adebáyò gasped.
Her eyes snapped open, ember-bright, reflecting visions that still clung to her mind like smoke after flame. The grove responded instantly. Leaves shuddered. Wind stilled. The ancient trees seemed to lean inward, listening.
The name burned her tongue.
Kàdàri.
The lost heir. The child of prophecy. The bloodline thought extinguished when the Ancients fell and the world fractured under its own power. His blood carried the spark that could awaken the land itself—or tear it apart.
Adebáyò rose from the altar with practiced grace, bare feet touching the earth as though greeting an old companion. The sigils carved into the stone dimmed, their duty fulfilled. She inhaled deeply, grounding herself, though her heart thundered like war drums.
To the east, dawn spilled fully across the sky. Time was already slipping away.
Moments later, priests and guards rushed into the grove, drawn by the sudden surge of power. They bowed deeply, foreheads touching the soil. Priest Èsìtà, thin and sharp-eyed, stepped forward, unease flickering across his features.
"Adebáyò," he said carefully, "what have the gods shown you?"
She turned, and for a heartbeat, none dared meet her gaze.
"The thread of fate frays," she said, her voice low but carrying, rolling through the grove like distant thunder. "The Blood awakens. Kàdàri lives."
A ripple of shock passed through the gathered priests.
Èsìtà swallowed. "The lost heir… after all these years?"
"Yes." Her jaw tightened. "And Mbòri knows."
At the mention of the rival kingdom, the guards stiffened. Mbòri, land of iron and smoke. Their king, Ògùrù, was no stranger to forbidden knowledge or blood bargains. He had hunted relics of the Ancients for decades, always one step behind Akàra—until now.
"He will try to take the boy," Adebáyò continued. "Or kill him if he cannot bend him."
She lifted her staff, its crystal head glowing faintly. "Prepare the Seekers. We ride immediately. Every second lost will weigh upon the boy—and the kingdom."
Drums sounded across Akàra soon after—deep, rhythmic, unmistakable. Gates opened. Horses stamped and snorted as armor was fastened and blades blessed. Citizens gathered in hushed clusters, whispering prayers and omens. Hope had been named. And so had fear.
Far beyond the city, beyond roads and walls, in a forest untouched by map or crown, a boy stirred.
He lay beneath twisted branches and thick shadow, wrapped in a threadbare cloak. His dreams were restless—fire and darkness chasing each other through his mind. When his eyes opened, they reflected the dim forest light like polished obsidian.
He did not know his name.
He had grown with no past worth remembering, moving from place to place, guided by instinct rather than memory. Hunger and survival were familiar companions. Yet this morning was different. Something coiled beneath his skin, humming softly, insistently.
A word pulsed through him.
Kàdàri.
He sat up sharply, breath quickening. The forest seemed to react—leaves trembling, shadows stretching toward him not in threat, but recognition. His heart pounded as warmth spread through his chest, down his arms, into his fingertips. His senses sharpened: the faint scent of morning dew, the soft rustle of a fox in the underbrush, the distant clatter of hooves and armor far beyond the trees. Every sound and movement was magnified, every shadow alive.
"What… is happening?" he whispered.
There was no answer, only the pull—toward the east. Toward Akàra.
Unseen by him, figures moved in distant shadows. Mbòri scouts, cloaked in ash and silence, eyes sharp with purpose. Orders burned in their minds: Find the boy. End the prophecy.
Even now, the forest itself seemed to shift. Roots lifted subtly beneath his feet, clearing a path. Branches bent aside, and birds, sensing the boy's awakening, fell silent. Something ancient stirred—a recognition older than kingdoms, older than crowns. The boy's blood sang, and the land answered.
Back in Akàra, Adebáyò swept through the palace halls like a storm. Prince Tíwa watched from the throne steps, his youthful face tight with worry.
"You believe this child can save us," he said.
"Or doom us," Adebáyò replied without hesitation. "Power does not choose morality. Only blood."
She paused, gaze distant. "But if Mbòri reaches him first, there will be no choice left at all."
Outside, the city stirred. Lanterns swung in the morning breeze, catching the glint of polished armor. Citizens peeked from windows, doors, and narrow alleyways, whispering prayers for safety and triumph. The Seekers, trained in speed, stealth, and the ancient arts, readied their horses and packs. They would ride the forests, the mountains, the hidden paths only they knew. No trail would be left unchecked.
Night pressed closer over the city as shadows lengthened, drums echoing louder, echoing like distant thunder. The boy rose to his feet, senses alive with awareness, muscles coiled like springs. His heartbeat matched the rhythm of the Seekers, the city, the land itself. Somewhere deep inside, a seed of power quivered, ready to burst into something extraordinary.
Zàfara watched.
And the age of shadows began its slow, inevitable rise.
The boy had no name. No past that mattered. Only the hum beneath his skin, the pull of destiny, and the first taste of something extraordinary. And yet, even as the dawn gilded the treetops, a question hung in the air: would he rise as savior… or as the herald of ruin?
The answer would come soon.