Three Months Earlier.
The moon hung over the shadowed slopes of Kilimanjaro like a sickle blade, sharp, cold, and indifferent.
The village of Chief Ibwe lay beneath it, swaddled in a silence so profound it felt heavy. It was the silence of a well-fed child, sleeping safely in its mother's arms. For twenty years, this land had known nothing but prosperity. The rains came on time. The maize grew tall and golden. The cattle were fat, their coats shining with health. Neighboring clans, once hostile, now sent envoys with gifts of honey and ivory, bowing before Chief Ibwe's wisdom.
To the villagers, this was paradise.
To Kito, the Chief's only son, it was a prison.
Kito paced the length of his private quarters, a restless tiger in a cage of mud and thatch. He kicked a clay pot, sending it shattering against the wall. The sound was satisfyingly sharp, a brief interruption to the suffocating peace outside.
He looked down at his hands. They were soft. They were adorned with rings of gold and silver—trinkets he had bought from coastal traders in secret. He rubbed the silk of his robe, a fabric imported from across the ocean, far too expensive for a "humble servant of the people."
That was his father's favorite phrase. Servant of the people.
Kito spat on the floor.
"Servant," he muttered, the word tasting like bile. "A Chief should be a King. A King should be a God."
He walked to the window, looking out over the sleeping settlement. He saw the communal granaries where food was shared freely with the poor. He saw the court circle where his father spent hours listening to the complaints of goat herders and farmers, dispensing justice with a gentle hand.
It disgusted him.
Kito had heard stories from the travelers. Stories of the Great Empires in the North and the Sultans of the Coast. Rulers who sat on thrones of carved ivory, their feet resting on velvet cushions. Rulers who drank wine from golden goblets and owned harems of women with skin like polished copper and eyes like the sea. Rulers who commanded armies to conquer, to pillage, to bring back slaves to build monuments to their glory.
That was power. That was life.
But here? Here, Kito was thirty years old, and he still had to ask his father for permission to buy a new horse. Here, he was expected to marry a local village girl and talk about rain patterns.
"He will live forever," Kito whispered to the darkness. "The old ox is sixty, and he has the heart of a twenty-year-old. He will rule for another twenty years. And I will be an old man before I ever taste real power."
He couldn't wait that long.
But the obstacles were mountainous. It wasn't just his father. It was the dogs that guarded him.
Baraka, the Ice General. The man was a legend. The people worshiped the ground he walked on. He was incorruptible, fiercely loyal, and terrifyingly powerful. If Kito moved a finger against the Chief, Baraka would freeze the blood in his veins before he could blink.
And the Mage. The Neighbor. The man with no name and too much power. He was an enigma, a sorcerer who could crush boulders with a thought. He saw too much. He heard too much.
Kito needed them gone. All of them.
He grabbed a heavy cloak, throwing it over his silk robes to hide the shimmer of wealth. He slipped out of his hut, moving through the shadows of the village like a disease.
He did not head toward the Chief's compound. He headed away from it, toward the edge of the sacred forest, where the air grew cold and the birds refused to sing.
The Great Baobab tree stood alone in a clearing of black earth.
It was ancient, its trunk as wide as a house, its bark scarred and knotted like the face of a demon. Its roots twisted out of the ground like arthritic fingers, grasping at the soil, desperate to pull something up from the underworld.
Kito hated this place. It smelled of old things. It smelled of secrets.
Nestled between the massive roots was a hut made of black mud and animal bones. No path led to it. No guard stood watch. The fear of the spirits was protection enough.
Kito pushed aside the curtain of dried bat skins. The texture was leathery and repulsive against his hand.
Inside, the air was thick, humid, and smelled of sulfur and burnt hair. The only light came from a fire pit in the center of the room, but the flames were not orange. They were a sickly, pulsating green, casting long, frantic shadows against the curved walls.
The Old Healer sat cross-legged before the fire.
He was a ruin of a man. His skin hung loosely on his frame, draped over brittle bones. He wore a rubega the color of dried blood. Across his face ran the Kivuli cha Kusikia—the Mark of Listening—a pale scar that seemed to pulse in time with the green fire.
He did not look up as Kito entered.
"The young lion creeps in the dark," the Healer rasped. His voice was a sound of dry leaves crushing underfoot. "You wear the cloak of a thief, but you smell of expensive perfume."
Kito sneered, stepping into the light. "And you smell of rotting meat, Old Man. We all have our vices."
The Healer chuckled, a wet, rattling sound deep in his chest. He finally looked up. His eyes were milky white, clouded by cataracts, blind to the world of men but piercingly sharp to the world of spirits.
"Why are you here, Kito?" the Healer asked, tossing a small bone into the fire. It hissed and popped. "You do not believe in the spirits. You mock the traditions."
"I believe in what works," Kito said, kicking a wooden stool over and sitting down. He leaned forward, the green light making his handsome face look ghoulish. "And I have a problem that steel cannot solve."
"Your father," the Healer murmured.
"My obstacle," Kito corrected. "He is stagnant. He holds us back. I want to expand, Healer. I want the gold mines of the southern valley. I want the ports of the coast. But he wants peace."
"Peace is good for the soul," the Healer mocked.
"Peace is bad for the treasury," Kito snapped. "I want him gone. But I cannot kill him. Not while the Wolf and the Wizard stand by his side. Baraka and the Mage… they are his shield. If I strike, they will destroy me."
Kito's eyes burned with frustration.
"I need a way to remove the pieces from the board. I need Baraka and the Mage dead. And I need it to look like a tragedy, not a murder."
The Healer sat silently for a long time. The hut seemed to breathe around them. The shadows in the corners stretched and contracted.
"You ask for much," the Healer whispered. "Baraka is favored by the spirits of the mountain. The Mage… his power comes from the stars. To kill them is to invite chaos."
"I thrive in chaos," Kito said smoothly. "If you help me, Old Man… when I am Chief, I will build you a temple. I will give you sacrifices. I will make the old ways the only ways."
The Healer paused.
He did not care for temples. He did not care for Kito's petty greed. But the Healer sensed something. The air in the spirit realm had been turbulent lately. A pressure was building. Something was coming.
He reached into a pouch at his waist, made of human skin, and withdrew a handful of grey dust.
"Let us see what the Ancestors say about your ambition," the Healer hissed.
He threw the dust into the fire.
ROAR.
The green flames vanished. In an instant, the fire turned a violent, blood-red crimson. It shot upward, licking the thatched roof, scorching the air.
Kito flinched back, shielding his face.
The Healer's body went rigid. His back arched, his bones cracking loudly. His head snapped back, his milky eyes rolling up until only the whites showed.
When he spoke, it was not his voice. It was a chorus. A thousand whispers overlapping, screaming, crying, warning.
"In the womb of the warrior's wife… it grows."
The voice was guttural, shaking the mud walls of the hut.
"Not one… but two. The Split Soul. The Balance."
Kito watched, terrified but unable to look away.
"Grey Wings," the Healer shrieked, foam gathering at the corners of his mouth. "One wing of Night. One wing of Light. They do not bow to the Chiefs. They do not bow to the Spirits. They are the Msingi wa Ulimwengu… the Foundation of the World."
The Healer began to convulse.
"The Old Order will crack. The temples will fall. The false kings will burn. From the ashes of the old world, a new balance will rise."
The fire suddenly died down, returning to a low, green flicker.
The Healer collapsed forward, gasping for air, sweat drenching his frail body. He clawed at the dirt floor, his fingernails leaving deep gouges.
Silence returned to the hut.
Kito sat frozen. He had expected a trick. He had expected a riddle. But that… that felt real.
"What was that?" Kito whispered, his voice trembling slightly.
The Healer slowly pushed himself up. He was shaking. He had seen the truth. The twins were coming. And the prophecy was clear: they would bring Balance.
But to a man like the Healer, who dealt in shadows and fear, "Balance" was a threat. To a man like Kito, who wanted absolute power, "Balance" was poison.
The twins would not just destroy the Chiefdom; they would destroy the corruption that Kito and the Healer represented. They would bring Light as well as Dark. They would fix what was broken.
The Healer's mind raced. He looked at Kito. He saw the greed in the boy's eyes.
If he told Kito the truth—that the children might save the world—Kito might hesitate. Or worse, the Chief might embrace them.
But if he lied… if he twisted the prophecy…
The Healer wiped the foam from his lips. A slow, toothless smile spread across his face.
"A warning," the Healer lied. "A terrifying warning."
"Tell me," Kito demanded.
"In three months," the Healer rasped, his voice dripping with malice, "Baraka's wife will give birth. Twins."
"And?"
"They are not human, Kito. They are monsters. The spirits showed me… pure destruction." The Healer leaned in close, his breath hot and foul. "I saw the village swallowed by the earth. I saw your future palace crumbling into dust. I saw the rivers turn to blood. These children… they are the End of Times."
He deliberately left out the Light. He left out the Hope. He left out the Balance. He painted a picture of absolute, unmitigated doom.
"If they breathe their first breath," the Healer hissed, "the Kingdom dies. All of it. Your gold, your slaves, your power… gone."
Kito sat back. The fear in his eyes was replaced by calculation.
"Destruction," Kito murmured. "My father… he fears the spirits above all else."
"He does."
"If he knew…" Kito stood up, and began to pace, his silk robes rustling. A plan was forming. A dark, perfect, terrible plan. "If my father truly believed that these children were a curse… that they would destroy his beloved people… he would have to kill them."
"He would," the Healer agreed. "For the greater good."
"But Baraka," Kito stopped pacing. "Baraka would never allow it. He is a father. If the Chief orders the death of his newborns, Baraka will draw his sword against the Chief. There would be civil war in the village. The people would side with Baraka."
Kito chewed his lip. "I cannot have a war here. I need it to be clean."
He looked at the Healer, his eyes gleaming with a sudden, sharp intelligence.
"We need to separate them. The Wolf must be away from the den when the pups are born."
"How?"
"I will go to my father tomorrow," Kito said, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. "You will go to him first. You will perform your ritual. You will scream and wail. You will tell him the prophecy—but make it worse. Tell him the gods demand blood. Make him panic. Make him believe the apocalypse is three months away."
"And then?"
"Then I will offer him a solution," Kito grinned. "I will tell him that while we deal with the spiritual threat, we must secure our borders. I will invent a threat from the neighboring valley. I will tell him rumors of an invasion. I will suggest a diplomatic mission—a high-level delegation to secure peace before the 'Curse' arrives."
Kito spread his hands wide.
"I will say: 'Father, send your strongest. Send Baraka. Send the Mage. And send me, your son, to learn from them.'"
The Healer cackled softly. "You would walk into the lion's den?"
"I will build the den," Kito corrected. "I will not hire local soldiers. I will hire mercenaries from the wasteland. Faceless killers. I will pay them with the gold I have saved. We will ride to the valley, set up camp for 'peace talks,' and in the dead of night… the mercenaries will strike."
"An ambush," the Healer nodded.
"Total slaughter," Kito said. "Baraka will be caught off guard. The Mage will be overwhelmed. They will die in the mud, believing they were attacked by enemies of the state."
"And you?"
"I will be the miracle," Kito laughed, a cold, hollow sound. "I will be the sole survivor. The grieving Prince who watched his heroes die protecting him. I will ride back to the village, covered in mud and fake tears, bearing the tragic news."
Kito walked to the fire, staring into the green flames.
"And while we are gone… my terrified father, driven mad by your prophecy, will have murdered Baraka's innocent children."
He turned back to the Healer, his face a mask of triumph.
"Think of it. The people will be mourning Baraka. And then… they will learn that the Chief killed Baraka's babies? They will despise him. They will call him a monster. And I will step in. I will 'discover' my father's crime. I will execute him for treason against the people. I will be the hero who avenged the General and saved the Kingdom."
The Healer stared at the boy. It was intricate. It was cruel. It was brilliant.
"You would burn your own family," the Healer whispered. "You would kill the greatest defenders this land has ever known, just to sit on a chair of wood?"
"Of ivory," Kito corrected. "A chair of ivory."
"The prophecy is true, boy," the Healer warned, his hand stroking the heavy black charm on his leg. "The children are coming. If your plan fails… if even one of them survives… the Balance will come for you."
"Let them come," Kito sneered, turning toward the door. "By the time they are old enough to walk, I will have an army of thousands. I will be untouchable."
He pushed aside the bat skins, letting the cool night air rush in.
"Do your part, wizard. Scare him. Make him believe the world is ending."
"The spirits obey," the Healer lied.
Kito walked out into the darkness. He did not look at the village with hate anymore. He looked at it with hunger. He looked at the Chief's hut, and then at the small, warm light flickering in Baraka's home.
He imagined Baraka laughing with his pregnant wife. He imagined the Mage reading his scrolls.
Enjoy it, Kito thought, his hand clutching the gold rings on his fingers. Enjoy your peace. It is the last season you will ever see.
The conspiracy had begun.