The Shadow's Debt
Proverbs 14:12 (NIV)
"There is a way that appears to be right, but in the end it leads to death."
The temple had grown cold. Not the kind of cold that comes from weather, but the kind that seeps out of stone when prayers die inside it.
Teuwa stood by the altar, staring at the relics he had once used to deceive the village—bowls of ashes, bundles of herbs, charms carved with false blessings. Once, he'd believed they still held some power, even if it was only the power of fear. Now, even that illusion was fading.
He had not slept since the night he fled from Elena's courtyard. The memory of her voice—clear, unwavering, unafraid—had followed him into every corner of his mind. And worse, the mark from the witches' ritual still burned faintly on his palm. No matter how many times he washed, it pulsed beneath the skin, a reminder of the pact he'd sworn.
Regbolo entered quietly, his face drawn and gray. "You look like a corpse," he muttered, setting down a clay jar. "Eat something before you faint. The people already think you're cursed."
Teuwa ignored him. "Have they stopped speaking her name?"
Regbolo gave a humorless laugh. "Stopped? No. Half the fools pray to her god now. The rest curse her behind closed doors. But they all whisper. The village is slipping through our fingers."
Teuwa turned sharply. "And what would you have me do? March into her house and burn it down? The witches warned us—no blood yet."
Regbolo poured himself a cup of stale beer and drank. "Maybe we chose the wrong side."
Teuwa's eyes flashed. "There is no other side. You saw what they can do. You heard their voices."
Regbolo looked away. "I heard something, yes. But I'm not sure it was power. It felt like hunger."
The air between them thickened. Outside, wind moved through the trees, carrying a low moan that sounded almost human.
Teuwa stepped closer. "You forget yourself, Regbolo. You swore as I did."
"I swore to live," Regbolo said quietly. "That's all. If living means serving shadows, then maybe dying is cleaner."
Teuwa's voice rose, echoing off the walls. "You think death will free you? The pact holds, fool. We are bound. Their fire will find us even in the grave."
Regbolo's cup slipped from his hand, shattering on the floor. "Then what are we to do? Wait until they devour us?"
Teuwa rubbed his temples, sweat slick on his skin despite the cold. "We do as they said. We turn the people. Break their faith. Once the girl is alone, once the strangers are gone, the witches will lift the curse."
"Or tighten it."
Neither spoke for a long time. The wind outside rose, rattling the shutters. Something heavy shifted in the rafters above them—too slow for an animal, too deliberate for the wind.
Regbolo swallowed hard. "What was that?"
Teuwa didn't answer. He picked up the small dagger that lay beside the altar and held it tight, though his hand trembled.
Then came the whisper.
Soft, like the sound of a reed bending.
Faint, but everywhere.
"Faith breaks slowly. Begin again.
Regbolo backed toward the door. "Did you hear—"
"I heard," Teuwa said, his voice shaking. "They're watching."
He stared at the altar, where the offering bowl began to smoke though no flame had been lit. The scent was not incense this time, but iron and something sweet—like fruit left too long in the sun.
The smoke curled upward, forming shapes that wavered between faces and hands. For a heartbeat, Teuwa thought he saw eyes in it—many eyes, all turned toward him.
"Begin again," the voice repeated.
He dropped the dagger. It hit the floor with a dull clang.
Regbolo was pale as chalk. "I'm leaving," he said. "I'll tell them I was wrong, I'll—"
Teuwa grabbed his arm. "And die before sunrise? You think they'll let you speak?"
"I can't stay in this place."
"You can't leave it," Teuwa hissed. "We are marked." He lifted his hand; the faint sigil burned briefly, glowing red through the skin.
Regbolo stumbled back. "You're mad."
"Maybe," Teuwa said softly. "But madness is safer than their anger."
He turned back to the altar, forcing himself to breathe. "We will do what they ask. Tomorrow, we'll call a meeting. Tell the people the gods demand a test of faith. We'll twist the girl's words against her—make her seem the cause of the witches' wrath."
Regbolo nodded slowly, fear winning over conscience. "And if it fails again?"
Teuwa's mouth twisted into something that wasn't quite a smile. "Then we pray the mountain takes her before it takes us."
---
That night, sleep came to neither of them.
In his small hut, Regbolo woke to the sound of whispers crawling along the walls. He lit a lamp, but the flame burned blue, cold and wrong. The shadow of his own hand stretched across the floor and didn't move when he did.
He muttered a prayer to Uwa, the god of his childhood, but the words tasted like dust.
From outside, faint laughter drifted through the trees—high, lilting, unmistakably feminine.
He pressed his hands to his ears. "Leave me be," he whispered. "I've done what you asked."
The laughter faded, replaced by a low hum. The clay charms Margaret had given him—tokens bound with red thread—had begun to smolder. The thread hissed and split apart, releasing the faintest trace of smoke that smelled of rot.
Regbolo crushed them underfoot, but the ash clung to his soles.
At the same hour, in the temple, Teuwa sat before the dying embers. He had covered the altar with a black cloth, but the glow from beneath refused to fade. The mark on his hand pulsed with each breath, in rhythm with the fire's heartbeat.
He thought of Elena's face—calm, bright, unafraid—and for a flicker of a moment, shame touched him. Not remorse, not yet, but something close.
He whispered to the darkness, "Why her? Why now?"
The answer came, thin as smoke.
"Because she burns what we feed."
Teuwa's breath hitched. "Then what are we to do?"
No answer. Only a sound—a soft scraping from the far wall, like fingernails tracing stone.
He rose, every instinct screaming to flee, but pride anchored him. He was Teuwa, high priest of Mahogany. He would not cower like a frightened boy.
The scraping stopped.
He turned slowly toward the altar.
The black cloth had caught fire.
Not bright fire—no, this was slow, heavy, almost liquid. It moved across the fabric like oil, swallowing color, swallowing light. He grabbed a jug of water and threw it, but the fire hissed, drank the water, and burned hotter.
He stumbled back. "No—"
The flames rose higher, then abruptly went out, leaving the altar untouched. Only the smell remained—iron and ash and the faintest trace of roses.
Teuwa sank to his knees. Sweat dripped down his temples, his breath shallow. He knew what it meant. The witches were calling in their debt.
He whispered to himself, "Tomorrow, then. Tomorrow I turn them."
Outside, the twin moons, Vareth and Lunara, slipped behind drifting clouds. The mountain groaned—a low, ancient sound that rolled through the valley. Dogs barked, and somewhere, a child began to cry
In the village below, Elena stirred in her sleep, sensing something shift. The fire inside her flickered, answering unseen challenge with calm heat.
---
By dawn, Teuwa stood before the temple door, robes hastily repaired, eyes red from wakefulness. Regbolo arrived soon after, his hands shaking.
"They'll come," Teuwa said, more to himself than to his companion. "The villagers always come when fear stirs. They can't resist hope, even false hope."
Regbolo looked at him sideways. "And if she comes too?"
Teuwa's jaw tightened. "Then we'll show them what faith costs."
The sun crested the ridge, staining the mist with red. Neither man saw it for what it was—a warning.
---
That day would carry them both toward ruin, though neither yet knew it. The mountain had begun to wake, and the pact that promised safety had started to breathe.
Its breath was cold.
Its hunger endless