The crowd's roar shook the arena like a living storm. Heat rippled from the scorched sands below, where two titans clashed — one of flesh, the other of shadow.
By the time Lia and Grom walked up the steps to the viewing balconey, the match was already underway. The guards barely gave them a glance; everyone's attention was fixed on the spectacle unfolding in the pit.
Leonotis adjusted the wrappings across his chest — the disguise of Lia now felt heavy, suffocating. He caught a glimpse of himself in a bronze shield mounted along the walkway: dark eyes framed by sweat and tension, hair tucked beneath a faded scarf. A stranger stared back.
Beside him, Low moved with an easy, lumbering gait, looking every bit the gruff warrior she pretended to be. Still, her voice carried its usual dry edge when she murmured, "You sure you want to sit among the others? People might still recognize you after what you did to Gregor."
Leonotis's jaw tightened. "Better to blend in than hide."
They stepped into the sunlight of the upper stands.
The arena stretched vast and circular beneath them, a sea of cheering faces and rippling banners. The air stank of sweat, roasted peanuts, and the faint ozone of burnt àṣẹ. In the center pit, a giant of a man — Ounwale the Iron Bull — was charging like an avalanche, the ground shaking with each step.
"Over here!"
A hand waved from a few rows ahead. Leonotis's chest eased as he spotted familiar faces — Adebayo, his lean frame relaxed but his eyes sharp; Zola, grinning and shouting into the crowd's rhythm; and Amara, serene and poised, her gold-trimmed shawl glimmering in the sun.
They'd saved them seats.
"Move!" Low grunted, forcing a rough baritone as she shoved through the packed rows. People parted, grumbling, then dove back into their shouting. Leonotis trailed close, hand tight on the hilt of his concealed sword.
Moving deeper into the crowd, they caught snippets of chatter:
"Hey, that's the dwarf from earlier."
"Isn't that Gregor's opponent?"
They ignored the murmurs and dropped into the seats beside their companions. Zola turned instantly, her braids flying. "You missed the start! Ounwale nearly broke the ring with his first charge!"
"I can see that," Leonotis said, his voice high and quiet beneath the disguise.
Down below, Silas — the smaller fighter — was moving with a grace that didn't belong to men or mortals. His limbs flowed like smoke, each motion blending seamlessly into the next. When Ounwale slammed toward him, Silas barely sidestepped, letting the bull of a man crash past. The impact sent a spray of sand skyward.
The crowd howled.
Amara, ever composed, folded her hands on her lap. "The way he moves… that's not pure Mgba," she murmured. "That's Laamb footwork. See the stance — the split balance between heel and toe? He's blending styles."
Zola blinked, impressed. "So he's just copying?"
"Not copying," Adebayo said, his tone low but certain. "Absorbing. Watch his centerline — every strike Ounwale throws, Silas adjusts by half an inch, changing the flow of pressure. He's not reacting to the man… he's reacting to his aura."
Low's brow furrowed. "That's not possible. No fighter's that fast."
Adebayo smirked. "Then look again."
The crowd gasped as Silas spun under Ounwale's grab, twisting the giant's arm backward in one smooth, impossible arc. For a heartbeat, the motion looked like Engolo — the inverted capoeira of the western isles. Then it shifted again, becoming something darker, sharper, almost predatory.
Ounwale roared, breaking free, sweat spraying. "Enough tricks!"
He lunged, shoulder-first, slamming into Silas's ribs. The smaller man hit the sand hard. Cheers erupted — a human wall of noise.
Leonotis gripped his knees. Something about the fall looked wrong — not the motion itself, but the way Silas didn't resist it. Like he had wanted to be down there.
Then Silas's eyes opened.
A shock went through Leonotis's chest. The man's eyes glowed — faintly at first, then brighter, a deep, pulsing violet that cut through the glare of the sun.
Leonotis's breath hitched. That color. That eerie, living pulse. He had seen it before.
Where?
Silas whispered something. The sound didn't reach the stands, but the air around him warped. The sand beneath his palms rippled like liquid. Then came the crack — a wet, awful sound.
Ounwale screamed. His leg bent the wrong way.
The crowd went dead silent. Even the drums faltered mid-beat.
"What… what was that?" Zola stammered, eyes wide.
"Not Mgba," Adebayo said grimly. His voice carried the weight of certainty. "That's not Orisha work at all."
Amara's frown deepened. "He's bending àṣẹ itself. Not calling it. Twisting it."
Low's jaw tightened. "Twisting the flow of àṣẹ? That's not—"
"Possible? Maybe you should tell him that," Adebayo finished quietly.
Down in the pit, the sand had blackened where Silas stood. Not scorched by flame, but burned without heat — melted into glassy streaks that shimmered purple-black under the sunlight. Silas rose slowly, the faint aura still clinging to him like smoke.
Ounwale lay crumpled, groaning. The healers rushed in, but none dared touch the black sand around him.
The herald hesitated, his voice trembling as he lifted his staff. "Victor… Silas of the East!"
No cheers followed. Only murmurs. Fear.
Silas gave no bow, no thanks. He simply turned and walked away, his shadow trailing unnaturally long behind him.
Jabara, seated high on the royal dais, leaned forward. Her golden eyes glinted beneath her veil. "That is not Orisha work," she said softly. "That is corruption."
Njiru chuckled from his seat beside the throne, his expression one of admiration rather than concern. "You see corruption," he replied. "I see innovation. Imagine a weaponized form of àṣẹ distortion — soldiers who could warp the flow itself."
Jabara's gaze didn't move from the blackened sand. "Innovation born from decay still kills the tree."
Below, the healers lifted Ounwale's limp body onto a stretcher, careful to avoid the scorched marks. One brushed his fingers too close and hissed — his skin blistering instantly.
Leonotis felt his pulse pounding in his ears. The sight of those purple eyes lingered, haunting. The glow in his eyes reminded him of the purple mushrooms.
He leaned toward Low, voice hushed. "Those eyes…"
Low glanced at him. "You noticed it too?"
Leonotis nodded faintly. "They felt… familiar."
Low frowned. "They do, and I hope I'm wrong about why."
Adebayo shifted beside him. He didn't speak, but Leonotis saw him glance — cautious, assessing.
The sand below still pulsed faintly with that purple hue.
The crowd, sensing the unease but not understanding it, began to cheer again — half-hearted at first, then louder, desperate to drown their own fear.
Silas disappeared into the tunnels.
And as the horns announced the match's end, Leonotis's gaze stayed locked on the dark glass scars across the arena floor.
Because somewhere, deep within that glow of corruption… he could almost feel something alive.
Something watching him back.
The inner corridors of the arena were built like a labyrinth—walls of ochre stone carved with Orisha sigils, veins of blue quartz humming faintly with containment wards. The cheers of the crowd still echoed from above, distant but heavy, like the memory of thunder after a storm.
Jabara walked those halls in silence.
Her ceremonial robe whispered around her ankles, every movement stirring a faint breeze that was not quite natural. Even when she was still, the air obeyed her moods; it fluttered, turned, and trembled like a living thing. The attendants who followed her—scribe-priests and young diviners—kept their distance, sensing the tension radiating from her.
They had all seen it.
The blackened sand. The unnatural pulse. The glow that had not come from any Orisha's blessing.
Silas had left the arena without a scratch, his every step measured, almost reverent. He hadn't celebrated his victory or acknowledged the crowd. He had simply disappeared into the tunnels beneath the arena—into her domain.
And now, the High Seer of Ọ̀yọ́-Ìlú would find him.
The sound of slow, deliberate footsteps ahead made her pause.
Silas emerged from the shadowed archway, bare-chested, the sheen of battle still clinging to his skin. A faint haze trailed him—dust, or maybe smoke. He moved like a man carved from liquid glass: no strain, no fatigue, no imperfection.
Behind him, the guards who had been stationed near the fighter's quarters were gone. Not dead—Jabara could sense their breath faintly down the hall—but displaced, lulled into sudden, dreamlike sleep.
"You dismissed my guards," she said, her voice calm, though the air around her rippled with invisible motion.
Silas stopped a few paces away and bowed his head, his smile soft and unreadable. "They were unnecessary. I wanted a quiet moment with the one who watches all."
"Flattery," she murmured, "is not a virtue I value."
"Then perhaps curiosity is."
Jabara's eyes, gold as polished amber, studied him. "You fought like water poured into the shape of every style that came before. Laamb. Mgba. Engolo. Even a hint of Dambe in your rhythm. No human muscle moves like that. Not without help."
Silas's grin widened. "You noticed."
"Of course I noticed," she replied sharply. "Every Seer in the upper terrace noticed. The wind bent around your strikes. The sand screamed when it touched your feet. I would have stopped the match if not for the King's desire to see the match through. So tell me—whose breath do you borrow, Silas?"
The words hung heavy.
Silas tilted his head. For a moment, his eyes dimmed, becoming nothing but human again—tired, almost gentle. "A gift," he said softly. "From Ikú."
The name struck like flint. The air in the corridor shifted; the faint wind that always followed Jabara turned sharp, uneasy.
She took a single step closer. "You speak that name as though it's a title, not a curse."
Silas chuckled, low and pleasant, like a teacher humoring a student. "A curse to you, perhaps. But Ikú was once worshiped the same as the other Orisha, were they not? Born from the same breath as them. Cast down, forgotten, buried beneath divine silence."
Jabara's expression didn't change, but her fingers flexed, the air tightening with unseen pressure. "Ikú's aseborn rebelled against the other Orisha. Don't make it sound like something else. What you carry—what I felt—was not divine. It was a corrupting power."
Silas's smile faded. He looked past her, as though watching something only he could see. "Power is corrupt, Seer. Every prayer you utter cuts the world a little more. The difference is that I stopped pretending it could be healed."
The wind around Jabara hissed. "You twist truth like a serpent twists grass."
"Perhaps." He brushed a fleck of black sand from his shoulder. "But serpents survive, don't they?"
They stood there for a long, tense moment.
Then Silas inclined his head, almost respectfully. "You have your answer. I'm sure the king will call for me soon. He seems… fascinated by what he saw."
He turned to go.
The moment he passed her, the air stilled—then shuddered. Jabara's gaze followed him, narrowing. There was no visible aura, no light, but the corridor dimmed just slightly as he walked away, as though something unseen devoured the light itself.
And then came the smell.
Faint, lingering, unmistakable.
Ash.
When Silas disappeared around the corner, Jabara exhaled slowly. The tension in her shoulders unwound, but her mind churned like a gathering storm.
"Leave me," she said quietly.
The attendants obeyed without question, vanishing down the hall.
Jabara turned back toward the path leading to the arena's inner sanctum. The corridor opened into a wide chamber that looked directly out onto the arena floor. The sand below had not yet been cleared. The blackened patch where Silas had stood still pulsed faintly, like a dying ember.
She descended the steps alone, her sandals whispering against stone. When she reached the edge of the scorched earth, she knelt.
The sand was wrong.
She reached to touch it with her fingertips, and before she could the wind around her recoiled. A sharp sting traveled up her arm, as though she'd dipped her hand into ice and flame at once. She hissed softly, drawing back.
"I didn't even touch it yet," she muttered outloud. "Is it getting getting stronger?"
The residue did not hum with àṣẹ—it rejected it.
It was void. A hollow that consumed the breath of the world around it. Even the faint protective sigils carved into the arena floor had gone dull where the black sand spread, their glow fading like dying embers.
Jabara extended her hand again, this time letting the wind move through her. She closed her eyes and prayed to her patron Orisha deeply, whispering words older than iron. The currents swirled around the sand, lifting faint motes into the air.
They didn't move like dust.
They writhed.
She withdrew instantly, closing her fist, crushing the air until it screamed in her ears. The black motes disintegrated, leaving behind a thin trace of oily residue.
Something unnatural had nested in that corruption. Something alive, but not of the Orisha.
Her thoughts raced. Ikú. The name haunted her now that she'd heard it spoken aloud. The forbidden one. Ikú had his followers try to reach for àṣẹ without supplication. They had tried to steal from the divine current rather than be chosen by it.
That Orishas existence should have been erased from history by decree of the old kings. Yet here was a man whispering the name of Ikú.
And the king… was interested.
She stood, wind curling around her like a cloak. Her eyes drifted toward the royal balcony high above, where banners of crimson and gold fluttered in the desert wind. She could feel Rega's energy even now, radiant and restless—a youth too eager for conquest, too blind to understand the forces he played with.
If he allied with whatever shadow Silas represented…
Jabara closed her eyes. The wind shifted, whispering her thoughts back to her.
"A storm that feeds on corruption is still a storm," it murmured. "And storms, no matter how strong, always pass."
"Not this one," she answered under her breath. "This one drinks the sky itself."
Her eyes opened again.
The last traces of Silas's corruption still marred the sand. No Orisha blessing would cleanse it. She would have to call something older. Something deeper.
But not here. Not with eyes everywhere.
The High Seer rose, drawing her hood. The moment she turned, the air behind her swirled and swallowed the black patch whole, burying it beneath a thin shimmer of dust. A concealment, not a cure.
For now, secrecy was her only ally.
As she left the arena floor, the faint scent of ash lingered, chasing her up the corridor like a ghost.
Research. She would need to know exactly what she was dealing with and that meant she must bury herself in the old scrolls of the Library. She wished for the tournament to be over as soon as possible.
And far behind her something moved beneath the buried sand. Something that pulsed once, like a heartbeat.