The Orisha of Thunder and Fire

The night sky over Oyo-Ile cracked open like the shell of a giant kola nut, spilling jagged white veins of light across the thatched roofs and mud walls. Thunder rolled low and deep, not the distant rumble of rain clouds, but something closer—something angry. Inside the sprawling palace compound of the Alaafin, where high earthen walls enclosed courtyards, shrines, and the royal quarters, young Prince Sango stirred on his sleeping mat.He was sixteen summers old, tall for his age, with the broad shoulders of his father's line and the sharp cheekbones inherited from his Nupe mother. His skin gleamed dark under the faint glow of an oil lamp, and beads of sweat traced paths down his bare chest. The air inside his chamber hung thick with the scent of burning camwood and the metallic tang that always came before a storm.Sango had never feared thunder. As a boy, while other children hid beneath their mothers' wrappers, he would stand in the open courtyard, arms wide, laughing as lightning forked overhead. The elders whispered that the sky spoke to him. Tonight, though, the sky did more than speak.A shadow moved at the doorway—two shadows, cloaked in darkness. Palace guards, but not the loyal ones who wore the red-and-white striped cloth of the Alaafin's personal retinue. These men wore plain wrappers tied low, faces half-hidden by cloth masks. One carried a short iron dagger; the other gripped a coiled rope.They stepped inside without a sound, eyes fixed on the sleeping prince.Sango's eyes snapped open. He had not been asleep. Not truly. The thunder had woken something inside him hours ago—a prickling heat in his veins, like embers stirring beneath ash.The first assassin lunged, dagger aimed for the throat.Sango rolled. The blade sliced air and mat instead of flesh. He came up on one knee, heart pounding not with fear but with a strange, exhilarating fury. The second man threw the rope, trying to snare his arms.Something snapped inside Sango.A low growl escaped his lips—not human, not quite animal. The air in the room grew heavy, charged. The oil lamp flickered wildly. Then—crack!—a bolt of white-hot light tore through the thatch roof above, blinding in its suddenness.The assassins froze.Sango felt it: heat surging from his core, racing down his arms, pooling in his palms. His fingers tingled as if grasping live coals. He thrust both hands forward instinctively.Lightning answered.Not a full storm strike, not yet—just a thin, searing arc that leaped from his fingertips to the first assassin's chest. The man jerked like a puppet on cut strings, eyes wide, mouth open in a silent scream. Smoke curled from his wrapper as he collapsed, twitching.The second assassin dropped the rope and bolted for the door.Sango was faster.He surged forward, bare feet slapping the packed-earth floor. His hand closed around the man's wrist. Heat flared again—hotter this time. The guard shrieked as sparks danced along his arm, charring skin. Sango twisted, slamming the man against the wall. Plaster cracked."Who sent you?" Sango's voice came out deeper than he remembered, edged with crackling static.The assassin gasped, eyes rolling. "The... the council... weak king... Ajaka—"Sango's grip tightened. Another spark jumped, smaller but vicious. The man convulsed and went limp.Silence fell, broken only by the patter of rain beginning outside and the distant roll of thunder that now sounded almost... approving.Sango released the body. It slid to the floor. He stared at his hands. No burns. No scars. Just faint white lines fading like afterimages of lightning on the retina.His chest heaved. The heat in his veins receded slowly, leaving him trembling—not from cold, but from the raw power that had just poured through him.Footsteps pounded in the corridor. Guards—real ones this time—burst in with spears raised, torches flaring."Prince Sango!"They stopped short at the sight: two dead assassins, roof scorched black in a jagged circle directly above the prince's mat, and Sango standing amid it all, eyes still glowing faintly with inner light.One guard dropped to his knees. "The sky... the sky has marked him."Sango looked up through the hole in the roof. Rain fell in silver threads, hissing where it touched the charred thatch. Another distant flash illuminated his face—fierce, unyielding, the face of someone who had just tasted divinity and found it tasted like fire.He stepped over the bodies without looking down."Summon the healers for these cowards," he said quietly. "And tell my brother the Alaafin that his palace is no longer safe—even from within."The guards exchanged glances. They knew the rumors: Alaafin Ajaka, the second son of Oranmiyan, was gentle, diplomatic, more suited to council debates than to war. The empire chafed under his peaceful rule. Border raids from Owu went unanswered. Tribute from vassal states arrived late or not at all. And whispers grew that a stronger hand was needed—one that could call storms to punish the faithless.Sango had always known he was different. Born under a sky that roared the night of his naming ceremony, marked from infancy by the elders as one touched by Jakuta, the ancient stone-thrower of thunder. But tonight was no legend. Tonight was real.He walked out into the courtyard. Rain pelted his skin, cool against the lingering heat. Warriors and servants gathered, murmuring. Some pointed at the sky. Others fell to their knees, pressing foreheads to wet earth.Sango lifted his face to the downpour. Lightning flickered again—not random, but almost deliberate, outlining his silhouette in white fire.A slow smile curved his lips.The spark had awakened.And Oyo would never be the same.In the royal audience hall the next morning, sunlight slanted through high windows carved with thunder motifs. Alaafin Ajaka sat on the elevated throne, face pale beneath his beaded crown. Beside him stood the council elders, their wrappers stiff with importance.Sango entered alone. No guards flanked him; he needed none now.The room fell silent.Ajaka's voice trembled slightly. "Brother... the guards reported—""Two men tried to end my life in my sleep," Sango interrupted, voice calm but carrying to every corner. "They named the council. They died by my hand—or rather, by the hand of the storm that answered me."Murmurs rippled through the hall.An elder stepped forward, arrogant, one of the old guard who had always favored Ajaka's softness. "Prince, such claims—"Sango's eyes narrowed. He raised one hand. No dramatic gesture—just a casual lift.A low rumble sounded outside. The elder flinched as a single bolt cracked somewhere beyond the palace walls, close enough to rattle the beads on the throne.The elder swallowed. "I... meant no disrespect."Sango lowered his hand. The rumble faded."I do not seek your throne, brother," he said to Ajaka. "Not yet. But know this: weakness invites knives in the dark. And I will not die quietly."Ajaka stared at him, a mix of awe and fear in his eyes.Sango turned and walked out, the crowd parting before him like grass before wind.Outside, the sky had cleared, but the air still hummed with promise.The Owu invaders were coming—scouts had been sighted at the borders. The empire needed a warrior.And the thunder had chosen its champion.Sango clenched his fist. Heat flickered once more in his palm, faint but undeniable. Let them come.He would meet them with fire.