By the time the sun began to slide behind the cliffs of Ọ̀yọ́-Ìlú, the coliseum was drunk on glory.
The sands were painted in blood and dust. The drums had not stopped once since dawn, yet the crowd still hungered — their cheers swelling like ocean waves, crashing in anticipation for the final match of the day.
"Last bout of the Culling!" the announcer roared, his voice laced with magic that carried across the miles of sandstone seating. "The Challenger of the South—Silas of the Black Steppe—versus Kena of the Twin Spears!"
The name Silas rolled through the crowd like thunder.
Leonotis, sitting with Low, Jacqueline, and the other survivors of the day's matches, felt the air tighten. Even the most confident fighters grew quiet. Somewhere above them, in the royal box, King Rega leaned forward on his throne, serpent eyes gleaming.
"Silas," Jacqueline murmured, her tone cold. "That's the one I told you about. The organization's chosen fighter."
Leonotis frowned. "He's the favorite?"
"More than that," she said. "He's the reason the odds-makers don't sleep."
The arena gates opened, and Kena of the Twin Spears strode into the light first — a mountain of a man, his torso painted in black clay symbols of Ogun. The twin spears gleamed in his hands, their tips wrapped in faintly glowing charms. He raised them toward the crowd, and the response was immediate — a roar of approval.
Then the opposite gate creaked open.
Silas stepped out.
He was unarmored. Unhurried. His skin was pale bronze, his hair tied back in a neat braid, his eyes calm, unreadable. There was no swagger, no ritual gesture, no salute to the crowd. He simply walked forward and stopped in the center of the ring.
For a moment, even the drummers hesitated.
Then, at Jabara's signal from the judge's stand, the rhythm resumed — a heartbeat pulse echoing through the stone amphitheater.
"Begin!"
Kena attacked first, swift and disciplined. The twin spears blurred — one thrust low for the ribs, the other for the neck. The movement was textbook Laamb footwork combined with Tahtib precision.
Silas didn't flinch.
He stepped aside in a motion so fluid it was almost ghostlike, letting the spear pass within a hair's breadth of his ribs. His counter came instantly — not a punch, not a kick, but something between them.
A Dambe-style shuffle-step into a spinning elbow, followed by an Engolo sweep that dropped Kena to one knee.
The crowd gasped.
Kena tried to rise, only for Silas to pivot on one heel and strike with the same spear-hand formation used by Kena — right down to the flick of his wrist and the subtle breath control that amplified the strike's speed.
It was perfect. Too perfect.
The spearhand landed on Kena's chest, and the man crumpled.
In less than ten heartbeats, the giant was face-down in the sand, struggling for air.
Silas straightened his posture, expression unchanged.
The referee hesitated, unsure. Jabara rose halfway from her seat.
Then Kena groaned and went still.
The crowd exploded into noise.
"Silas! Silas! Silas!"
But Leonotis didn't cheer. Neither did Low.
"What did I just see?" he whispered.
"Everything," Jacqueline said grimly. "Every style from today — folded into one."
She wasn't exaggerating. Silas's movements had the deceptive footwork of Dambe, the aerial grace of Engolo, the stick-fighting rhythm of Tahtib, and the low-hook stability of Mgba. He had mirrored the greatest masters of the day without flaw.
Yet something about it felt… hollow.
Like a perfect copy with no spirit.
Jabara descended from her high platform, her robe trailing gold dust in the light. The crowd parted for her as though for an approaching storm. He knelt beside the fallen Kena, checking his pulse, then rose to face Silas.
"Well fought," Jabara said, voice deep and measured. "But tell me, boy—whose style do you call that?"
Silas turned his head, his eyes devoid of warmth. "Mine," he said simply.
Jabara's gaze sharpened. She could feel it now — the faint hum of àṣẹ around Silas, but it wasn't the living pulse of creation that flowed from the Orisha. It was muted, filtered, manufactured.
Like the echo of a song trapped in a jar.
Jabara's voice hardened. "That power you wield… it is not yours."
The crowd murmured, sensing the tension.
Silas bowed slightly, an almost mocking gesture. "Perhaps. But does the source matter, so long as it wins?"
Jabara studied him for a long, heavy moment. The wind stirred the sand between them.
Then she said softly, "Yes."
Back in the waiting hall, silence stretched among the fighters.
Zola sat with by herself. Adebayo sharpened his spear in slow, deliberate strokes. Even Amara, calm as moonlight, watched the exit where Silas had gone, her brows slightly furrowed.
"He doesn't fight like us," she murmured.
Leonotis nodded, still replaying the match in his mind. "It's like he knows every move before it's made."
"That's not training," Low said. "That's programming."
Adebayo folded his arms. "There are rumors. That an underground sect's been experimenting with àṣẹ synthesis—bottled spirit-force, drawn from corrupted Orisha fragments. If that's true…" He looked toward the arena, where the sand still shimmered from Silas's energy. "Then he's not channeling an Orisha. He's wearing one."
Leonotis's stomach turned. "That's possible?"
"It shouldn't be."
Above, in the royal dais, King Rega rose from his throne.
"Flawless," he murmured. "His movements... divine."
Kenya at his side looked uneasy. "No mortal channels divinity so cleanly, my King. It feels… counterfeit."
Rega smiled. "Counterfeit or not, it wins. And power that wins is worth understanding."
His gaze flicked to the list of competitors still standing. "We'll have to watch that Silas."
That night, long after the last drum faded, Jabara stood alone on the arena sands.
The moon hung high, painting the amphitheater in silver. She knelt, pressed a weathered palm to the ground, and whispered a prayer in Old Yoruba. The earth whispered back — faint traces of every fight that day, echoes of real àṣẹ still lingering like aftershocks.
But when her hand brushed the spot where Silas had stood, the pulse vanished.
Nothing.
No whisper. No memory. No life.
Only silence — deep, sterile, dead.
Jabara rose slowly. Her gold-trimmed cloak rustled in the night wind.
"Whoever you are, boy," she said into the darkness, "you're no warrior of this world."
The desert wind answered with a dry laugh that wasn't quite the wind at all.
And in the distant shadows of the capital, Silas walked alone, his steps soundless, his eyes reflecting a faint violet glow.
The Perfect Shadow.
The arena had gone quiet at last. The sands of Ọ̀yọ́-Ìlú, once alive with thunder and song, now shimmered beneath the descending sun—its heat traded for the cool breath of evening. The drummers were gone. The banners hung limp. The champions dispersed into the city like sparks blown from a dying fire.
The first day of the Culling was over, but its echoes lingered in the bones of every fighter. Victories, rivalries, and unspoken fears still danced in their veins.
Lia of the Greenwater walked shoulder-to-shoulder with Grom, her short hulking companion. Around them, the other young champions clustered together, laughing, boasting, already retelling the day's fights as though they were myths.
Adebayo slapped Zola on the back. "That spinning kick—eh! I thought you'd take the man's head clean off!"
Zola smirked, twirling the hem of her green sash. "The crowd would've enjoyed that too much. Besides, I like them alive. It's easier for them to bow after the match."
Even Amara, the quiet summoner girl with the short hair and black staff, allowed herself a small smile as she was pulled into the circle of celebration.
Someone shouted, "Let's go drink! The sun's dead and we're still standing. That's reason enough!"
A chorus of agreement followed. Tankards were mentioned, the famous taverns of Ọ̀yọ́-Ìlú named one by one—the Golden Scorpion, the River's Bite, the Dustwalker's Rest. Laughter rippled through the group, youthful and reckless.
Adebayo grinned, already halfway down the steps. "Come, Lia! Grom! We'll toast your wins too!"
Grom scratched at her false beard. "We shouldn't drink," she said curtly.
"Speak for yourself," Zola teased, raising an eyebrow.
Low folded her arms. "Fine. I don't drink. Lia's… allergic."
Leonotis shot her a look. "Allergic?"
She elbowed him. "To stupidity."
That earned a round of laughter from the group. Even Amara, quiet as she was, smirked behind her staff.
"Well," Amara said, adjusting the strap of her weapon, "I'm going. I want to see if the drinks are as good as the rumors. Besides, I need something cold after today."
"You fought like thunder; you deserve it!" Adebayo called.
Amara gave a small wave and turned toward the city streets, her silhouette fading into the torchlight as the others followed, their laughter echoing down the sandstone steps.
When the sound had finally faded, Low sighed. "Good. Now we can stop pretending to be friendly."
Leonotis chuckled softly, tugging off the linen that covered part of his face. "They're not bad people, you know."
"Maybe. But we're not here to make friends." She looked around, lowering her voice. "We're here for—"
"Gethii," Leonotis finished the sentence.
Leonotis's gaze drifted toward the palace of Ọ̀yọ́-Ìlú. Even from here, it looked alive—its towers breathing faint light through carved sigils that pulsed like veins. Somewhere in that labyrinth, Gethii and Chinakah were being held.
Low crouched, unrolling a worn map on the ground, illuminated by the flicker of her small lantern. "There," she said, pointing. "If we can reach the maintenance gate behind the stables, we can slip inside."
Leonotis frowned. "You're sure it's unguarded?"
"Sure enough." She gave him a look. "You can always stay behind and braid your fake hair again."
He glared at her but smiled despite himself. "You've got jokes now."
They moved quickly through the backstreets of Ọ̀yọ́-Ìlú. The air was heavy with incense and smoke; laughter and music spilled from the taverns where the other fighters now celebrated. Leonotis caught glimpses through open doorways—Zola spinning in rhythm to desert drums, Adebayo arm-wrestling two men at once, Amara sitting alone, sipping something dark from a clay cup, her gaze distant.
He looked away.
By the time they reached the palace walls, the music had faded into memory. The cliffs loomed above them, painted in silver by the moon.
Low motioned for silence, her eyes sharp under the fake beard. "We move fast, stay low. If anyone sees us, we're dead."
Leonotis nodded. The thrill of danger coiled in his chest. His hands itched—not from fear, but from the pulse of àṣẹ rising beneath his skin. The green whispered faintly to him, eager to move, to protect, to grow. He swallowed hard, forcing it down. He couldn't use it. Not here. Not where the King's seers might feel its signature.
Low led the way through a narrow crevice between two sandstone towers. The passage reeked of water and iron. She crouched beside a metal grate, half-buried in sand. "This is it," she murmured. Together they pried it open, slipping into the darkness below.
The aqueduct tunnel was narrow and damp, echoing with the steady drip of unseen water. Leonotis pressed a hand against the wall, feeling faint etchings—old prayers to Ogun carved by laborers long dead. Their faith still lingered in the stone like warmth.
They crawled through the tunnel for several minutes until it opened into a chamber lit by faint bioluminescent moss. Ahead, a staircase wound upward into the heart of the palace.
Low exhaled slowly. "All right. From here on, we stay invisible."
They crept upward, emerging behind a curtain of silks that rippled faintly in the wind. The scent of myrrh and cedar filled the air. They were in the lower servant halls. Gold inlays decorated every wall, depicting battles, coronations, and sacrifices to the Orisha. The silence was oppressive, broken only by the soft creak of their footsteps.
Low paused at an archway. Through it, they could see the royal courtyard—moonlight spilling across an clear blue pool. At the far end, two guards stood watch on either side of a heavy door—the entrance to the dungeons.
Leonotis's heart did a little tap-dance against his ribs. The guards stood like twin statues of boredom, their spears held loosely, but the door might as well have been on the other side of the sun.
"Okay," Low whispered, her voice a low growl that vibrated through her fake beard. "New plan. We need a distraction."
"A distraction," Leonotis repeated, his eyes darting around the courtyard. He spotted a decorative pot of sand. "I could throw some sand!"
"And do what? Mildly irritate them? This isn't a beachfront squabble, Lia."
"Okay, Low," Leonotis hissed. "When it's just us, you can call me Leonotis."
"What if someone overhears? We have to be careful," she countered. "Besides, 'Lia' suits you."
"It does not!" he shot back, his voice a little too loud.
From across the courtyard, one of the guards shifted. "What was that?"
Thinking fast, Leonotis pressed his palm against the stone archway, channeling a sliver of àṣẹ through the palace foundations and out into the courtyard. A large shrub in the distance began to shake violently, its leaves rustling as if caught in a gale.
The guards saw the movement instantly. "Intruders! Over there!" one of them roared, and they both charged toward the far side of the courtyard, spears leveled.
"Now!" Low breathed.
They scrambled from their hiding place, tripping over each other in a mad, undignified dash for the now-unguarded door. With the guards distracted by the phantom in the bushes, they slipped inside, pulling the heavy door quietly shut behind them.