The sun hung high over Ọ̀yọ́-Ìlú, turning the Coliseum's white stone into a shimmering sea of heat. The crowd's voices rolled like waves, chanting, cheering, roaring as the next match was called.
"Lia of the Greenwater, challenger from the South!"
The announcer's cry echoed across the coliseum, followed by a low murmur of curiosity. A newcomer—one few had heard of, dressed in ragged desert garb, the lower half of their face hidden beneath a strip of green cloth.
Leonotis stepped forward into the ring of sand, every grain glinting gold under the sun. His heart pounded against his ribs. The disguise was crude but holding: loose tunic, braided cords, a sash dyed from crushed herbs. To the audience, he was Lia, an outlander fighter of no known school. But within, his blood hummed with the steady pulse of the forest—the buried rhythm of leaves, roots, and earth calling for release.
Across from him, his opponent was already moving.
"Makan the capoeira!"
The man bounded into view like a spring uncoiling—bare-chested, lean, his skin painted in white and ochre. His every motion dripped rhythm. Anklets of cowrie shells jingled as he flipped, landing in a deep crouch, head tilted. He smiled, wide and effortless.
"So… the river sends a stranger to the desert," Makan said, voice melodic even through the distance. "Let's see if you can swim in sand."
The drums started—low and steady.
Bum-bum. Ba-bum.
Leonotis had seen it before: a dance of inverted motion, the body used like a weapon of water and air. He could already tell Makan was masterful. The man bent backward into a handstand, his legs weaving through the air like twin serpents.
The crowd leaned forward, enchanted.
Leonotis swallowed hard. "Don't use it," he muttered under his breath. "Don't use the àṣẹ."
The referee's signal rang—a short, sharp beat on the talking drum.
The fight began.
Makan moved first.
He spun into a cartwheel kick, heel slicing the air. Leonotis ducked, sand spraying his face. Another kick came, lower, sharper, aimed at his ribs. He barely blocked it with his forearm, pain lancing up his side.
Makan flowed backward, not retreating but dancing—each motion so fluid it mocked the idea of stillness.
Leonotis advanced cautiously with his wooden sword trying to measure the distance.
Makan grinned. "Too slow, river girl."
He leapt again, flipped, twisted—his heel striking Leonotis's shoulder before Leonotis could counter. The blow sent him stumbling. The crowd roared.
"Lia of the Greenwater falls early!" someone shouted.
"Come on, Lia!" another voice jeered. "Show the desert what you're worth!"
Leonotis spat grit from his mouth. He rose slowly, breathing through the pain. His fingers itched. He could feel his àṣẹ as if there were vines under his skin twitching, whispering. His àṣẹ wanted out.
He forced it down.
"Can't reveal yourself," he muttered. "Not here. Not now."
Makan had started circling him, head low, singing under his breath in Kimbundu—a war hymn disguised as rhythm. The dance circle widened, and the drummers matched his cadence. Each note pulsed through the crowd, the sound of a heartbeat magnified to the size of mountains.
Leonotis matched his steps, keeping rhythm without realizing it.
Then—an opening.
He stepped in, feinted right, ducked low—his hand brushing the sand.
Roots, thin as threads, answered.
No. No, no—
He yanked his hand away before they surfaced. The hesitation cost him.
Makan's leg whipped across in a blur, sweeping his feet from under him. Leonotis hit the sand hard, the world bursting white for a moment.
Makan stood over him, smiling but not cruel. "You're holding something back," he said softly. "Why?"
Leonotis didn't answer.
Makan's tone shifted, a teasing lilt. "Or is that your style? Falling with grace?"
Leonotis lunged up suddenly, closing the distance. He struck—not with magic, but instinct. His palm hit Makan's chest, and for the briefest instant, something stirred beneath his skin.
A pulse of green.
A whisper of leaves.
Makan staggered back, confusion flickering across his eyes. He looked down at his chest, where faint vine-like marks glowed for just a heartbeat—then vanished.
"What was—?"
Leonotis didn't give him time. He moved again, faster this time, channeling his natural rhythm through pure motion. His attacks came sharper now: knees, elbows, sidesteps. He had learned something from watching the Engolo—flow.
Their fight became a blur of mirrored rhythm.
Makan inverted into a handstand kick. Leonotis ducked under and swept his arms. Makan rolled, sand exploding around him, and laughed breathlessly.
"Yes! That's it!" he shouted. "Show me your truth!"
But truth was dangerous.
Leonotis could feel the plant life beneath the desert floor—the ache of sleeping roots, yearning toward him. The urge to bloom. He clenched his teeth.
He struck again, this time channeling momentum instead of power. The hit landed clean, sending Makan skidding across the sand.
The crowd erupted.
"Lia! Lia! Lia!"
Leonotis froze. The cheers were deafening. He wasn't supposed to win like this. He was supposed to blend in.
Makan rose slowly, sweat glistening across his chest. He wiped blood from his lip, then bowed his head slightly.
"You fight like no school I've ever seen," he said, voice steady. "Who taught you?"
Leonotis hesitated. His throat tightened.
"Life," he said finally. "And the need to stay alive."
Makan smiled faintly. "A cruel but honest teacher."
He lunged again, spinning midair into a back kick. Leonotis blocked, caught his leg, and twisted—throwing him to the ground with a fluid motion that sent a tremor through the sand.
The drummers stopped. The silence hit like a hammer.
The referee raised a hand. "Match—ended! Lia of the Greenwater—victorious!"
The arena roared to life.
Leonotis stood there, chest heaving, dust clinging to his skin. Beneath the applause, he could feel it—his àṣẹ thrumming like caged lion.
"Why am I losing control," Leonotis muttered under his breath.
Makan regained conciousness a moment later, breathing hard, but smiling. "You're dangerous," he said quietly. "Hide it well, river girl. The desert watches."
Then he extended a hand. Leonotis took it.
Their palms met, and for just an instant, Makan's eyes widened.
Leonotis pulled his hand away. Had he felt it—the faint tremor of àṣẹ too wild, too green for a river girl.
But Makan said nothing.
He only bowed his head in respect.
As Leonotis walked off the field, the chants of Lia! Lia! echoing in his ears, Low met him in the corridor's shadow.
"You almost lost it," Low said sharply.
"I know."
Low grinned despite herself. "But damn, you made it look good."
Leonotis didn't smile. His hands were trembling.
In his veins, something whispered—a promise, or a warning.
And somewhere in the royal box above, King Rega leaned forward in his gilded seat, eyes narrowing.
"That one," he murmured to his bodyguards. "Find out where they're from."
The midday sun hung like a molten coin over Ọ̀yọ́-Ìlú's coliseum, scorching the sea of faces gathered in the tiered stands. The scent of roasted millet and iron filled the air; merchants shouted over the noise, drums rolled between matches, and the sands below shimmered with the heat of glory and blood.
Leonotis stood in the shade of the waiting corridor, still slick with sweat from his own match. His heart hadn't yet slowed. The roar of the crowd was a living thing — a beast of sound and fever that demanded to be fed.
"Next bout!" the announcer bellowed, voice booming magically through the amphitheater. "Kifo of the Broken Step versus Amara of Obatala's Reach!"
The names rippled through the audience like sparks on oil.
Low whistled beside him. "A werehyena? That's what they call the Broken Step, right? Those cursed ones from the northern savannah."
Jacqueline frowned. "They say they hunt by moonlight and eat the hearts of their prey to steal courage."
"And the girl?" Leonotis asked.
"Amara?" Jacqueline's eyes softened slightly. "A prodigy from Obatala's temple. Word is she doesn't fight with her hands."
Leonotis tilted his head. "Then how does she fight?"
Jacqueline smiled faintly. "You'll see."
The gate creaked open, and the contestants entered the arena.
Kifo came first — a broad-shouldered man wrapped in hides and bones. His eyes gleamed yellow even in daylight, teeth sharp as daggers. His bare feet crushed the sand with predatory weight, and every step seemed to echo a growl buried somewhere deep in his chest.
Then she came.
Amara.
She looked nothing like the others — no armor, no painted sigils, no scars of a seasoned fighter. Just a short, curly-haired girl, perhaps Leonotis's age, walking barefoot into the killing ground with a calm that silenced even the rowdiest spectators. Her staff — a long black rod polished smooth as riverstone — rested lightly in her hand.
She bowed to the crowd, to the drummers, to the empty sky.
The contrast was startling. Kifo snarled and spat into the sand. Amara simply smiled.
"She's so calm," Low muttered.
"No," said Leonotis quietly. "She's ready."
The drums began — low, pulsing, deliberate.
Kifo's breathing deepened. His muscles rippled under his skin, bones shifting with a grotesque sound. The transformation came like breaking glass: spine arching, limbs elongating, fur sprouting in uneven patches. His snarl tore through the air, and suddenly, a hyena-headed man crouched where the fighter had stood.
The crowd erupted into chants. "Kifo! Kifo! Kifo!"
He bounded forward on all fours, faster than any human.
Amara didn't move.
At the last moment, as his claws raked toward her throat, she whispered — a single word.
The ground split open.
A clawed hand of stone burst from the earth, catching Kifo mid-leap and slamming him into the sand with bone-shattering force. The arena gasped.
She spun her staff once, gracefully. "Rise."
From the fissure, a shape emerged — a creature of cracked glowing red stone, its head that of a lion, its mane a crown of red fire. Its roar rolled through the coliseum like thunder trapped in a jar.
Leonotis felt it — the hum of àṣẹ that rippled from her body, refined and balanced like an ancient rhythm. She wasn't forcing power. She was conducting it.
Kifo roared back, half-man, half-beast, his claws slicing through the conjured lion's chest. But it didn't bleed. Instead, shards of red light burst out, forming smaller beasts — hounds, serpents, even winged lizards — all snapping at him with synchronized fury.
Amara lifted her staff and traced a circle in the air. The monsters moved as if tethered to her will, flowing around Kifo like dancers.
Every strike he made was met by three more. Every lunge found only air and shimmering light.
Leonotis's jaw slackened. He'd seen warriors and aseweavers — but this was something else entirely. She wasn't fighting to kill. She was orchestrating creation.
Kifo finally broke through the swarm, lunging at her with a furious snarl. His jaws snapped inches from her face.
She didn't flinch.
Her staff came down once, touching the center of his chest.
There was a blinding flash.
When the light faded, Kifo was on his knees, the hyena form melting away, steam rising from his body. He collapsed into the sand, human again, trembling.
The crowd was silent for a heartbeat. Then — an explosion of noise.
"Amara! Amara! Amara!"
Even the drummers joined in, their rhythm shifting to praise rather than combat.
Amara bowed once more, the light fading from her staff. Her conjured beasts dissolved into motes of emerald dust that rose and vanished into the sunlit air.
Leonotis couldn't move.
He'd never seen anyone so controlled, so alive. The way she held herself — unshaken, grounded, like the world itself bent slightly to her rhythm — it stirred something deep in him.
"Hey," Low said, nudging him. "You're staring."
He blinked. "What?"
"You heard me, lover boy." She smirked. "Don't drool too much, or your are supposed to be a girl remember."
Jacqueline chuckled quietly, though her eyes stayed on Amara. "That girl's dangerous. Not just her power. Her balance. Even her restraint is weaponized."
Leonotis didn't respond. His heart was pounding again — not from fear, but fascination. Something about Amara's presence hummed the same frequency as his own hidden nature. Like the roots beneath the sand recognized her rhythm.
He whispered under his breath, "Who are you?"
Up in the royal dais, King Rega leaned forward, his crown catching the light.
"The girl is temple-trained," said one of his bodyguards. "A devotee of Obatala. Her power resembles divine conjury, though… different. More instinct than liturgy."
The king stroked his beard. "And the girl from earlier — the one who defeated the capoeira fighter?"
"Still unverified, Your Majesty. No record of a 'Lia of the Greenwater' in any registry."
King Rega's gaze dropped to the sands, where Amara stood among cheers. "Two unknowns in one day," he murmured. "Perhaps the Orisha are sending me something."
Back in the waiting hall, the fighters returned one by one, battered and bloodied, each swallowed by the growing noise of victory songs.
Amara passed through the archway, her black staff resting against her shoulder. Sweat glistened on her brow, but her expression was serene.
Leonotis couldn't help himself. He stepped forward.
"You were incredible out there," he said, voice awkward.
Amara paused, then turned. Her eyes were deep brown — steady, unguarded. For a moment, the noise of the coliseum seemed to fade.
"Thank you," she said softly. "But the beasts did most of the work."
"You commanded them."
"I asked," she corrected gently, a smile playing at her lips. "The land answers when you listen."
Leonotis felt his throat tighten. That was exactly how his own power felt — the plants responding.
Low elbowed him hard in the ribs. "We're leaving," she muttered. "Before your face gives you away."
Amara tilted her head, studying him for a beat longer than comfort allowed.
Leonotis blinked. "I—uh—yes."
"Maybe we'll meet in the ring." Her smile deepened. "And you'll see how the voice the land answers."
With that, she turned and walked away, her staff tapping softly against the stone.
Leonotis stood frozen, watching the flicker of red motes fade from her footsteps.
Low sighed. "Great. You're doomed."
But Leonotis barely heard her. His pulse still matched the rhythm of her drumming — the heartbeat of creation itself.
He wanted to see her again.