The world belonged to water long before kingdoms learned the cruelty of iron. And no water ruled more fiercely than the River Omu. It curled through jungles older than memory, moving like a living creature, whispering things only the dead should know. Its mist carried forgotten spirits, its currents hid ancient prophecies, and its presence alone made the land bow.
Beside this river stood a crooked hut swallowed in vines. Charms hung from its roof—bone rattles, clay discs etched in secret runes, feathers from extinct birds. They clicked softly each time the river breathed.
Inside, blue witch-flames floated in a perfect circle. Their cold glow lit the wrinkled face of Mother Isalena, high witch of the Southern Realm. Her tangled white hair fell down her back like roots pulled from the earth, and her eyes—sharp, ancient, tireless—reflected truths older than dynasties.
Tonight the air was too still. Heavy. Expectant.
Outside, the river murmured as if listening.
Before her knelt her two daughters.
Nkema, firstborn—tall, fierce, proud. Her aura felt like a blade heated until almost white, restrained only by ceremony. She knelt straight-backed, chin raised, eyes steady, her entire posture declaring destiny.
Nkemesit, secondborn—quiet, observant, gentle. She knelt with her hands folded in her lap, eyes lowered, listening to the river even here inside the hut. Where Nkema burned, Nkemesit disappeared into the shadows she understood too well.
Isalena's staff struck the ground once.
"My daughters," she began, her voice rolling like thunder smothered in cloth. "Tonight you learn why you exist."
The blue flames leaned in.
"Your lineage serves the Stone Court. Your souls were woven to the royal bloodline before you first breathed. You are witch-wives of kings. Protectors of thrones. Your destiny is older than our bones."
Nkema's eyes gleamed. Nkemesit lowered her head further.
Then Isalena's voice softened—and a tremor of pain cracked through it.
"I should have borne three daughters."
Both sisters looked up.
"One daughter for each prince. And the third… the third would birth the next generation of witches. A perfect triad. Balanced. Holy. Complete."
She touched the empty space beside them.
"But the river denied me a third. The ancestors veiled their reasons. The balance broke before either of you were born."
An unseen wind slithered through the hut. A charm on the doorway shattered.
Nkema and Nkemesit exchanged a look. It held questions they had never dared to ask.
"The princes will arrive soon," Isalena continued. "Your futures will be chosen. The rituals I teach you now must follow you to your graves."
What followed was a night of secrets.
She taught them Battle-Shadow rites, allowing their spirits to slip into battlefields to shield their husbands from death.
She taught them Under-Bed Conjurations, herbs and river-sand mixtures that opened the sleeping mind for astral travel.
She taught them the Bindings of Breath, the silent vows that chained a witch's soul to royal blood, strengthening the rule of kings.
Nkema absorbed everything fiercely, eagerly—she was already imagining the crown she would protect. Nkemesit learned with trembling care, as though each word weighed more than she could carry.
Then Isalena's voice fell into a whisper, softer than water sliding over bone.
"There is one secret left. The forbidden knowledge that birthed our entire lineage. The reason you must never break your vows."
The flames shrank to thin needles of blue.
"If a witch eats the heart of a king," Isalena said, each word thick with metal and grave-dirt, "and speaks the ancient death-incantation… she becomes immortal."
The air collapsed into silence.
"Ageless," Isalena continued. "Unfading. Bound to earth until the last star dies." Her voice became a rasp. "A God Killer, if her power is directed at the right target."
Nkemesit recoiled in horror. Nkema's breath caught—and sharpened. Something ancient rippled through her eyes.
"But none who attempted the ritual survived it," Isalena warned. "It twists the soul. It curses the land. It ends kingdoms."
The river outside let out a low, eerie hum.
"You must carry this secret because the third daughter—the balancing daughter—was never born. And so the burden falls to two instead of three."
Nkema and Nkemesit bowed their heads, but both felt the same truth:
Tonight, something had shifted.
And the river knew.
The Choosing
Beyond the jungles and river mist rose the Stone Court of Oloran, carved into a mountain shaped like a spear raised to the heavens. Red-soil plains stretched around it like a throne of earth.
In the throne hall, King Akor the Unbroken—a warrior so feared that rebellions died when they heard his war drum—coughed the dust of age. His queen, Avela, rested a cold, wise hand on his shoulder.
"My king," she murmured. "Prepare your house. The ancestors call."
A day was chosen.
A kingdom held its breath.
The announcement spread:
Prince Oran, the kingdom's strongest warrior, was destined for Nkema.
Prince Kelan, the quiet poet-prince, would take Nkemesit.
The capital erupted in excitement. Drums thundered across the stone courtyard. Thousands gathered, incense thickening the air until it tasted sweet and metallic.
Nkema walked through the palace like a queen already chosen, basking in the salutes of warriors and calculating stares of elders. She was flame—confident, brilliant, sure.
Nkemesit walked behind her like a shadow—quiet, unnoticed, eyes gliding over everything with a softness that disguised a deeper knowing.
When the hour came, the crowd fell to its knees.
The Rite of Spirit Sensing began.
Prince Oran stepped forward first. Storm-eyed. Battle-scarred. Fire-blooded.
He stood before Nkema, placed his gauntleted hand inside the sacred mantle, and—
The witch-flames blazed red.
Power. Stability. Royal authority.
The elders nodded approvingly. Everything was going as prophecy expected.
Nkema's smile sharpened.
Then Oran stepped to Nkemesit.
His hardened gaze softened—just for a heartbeat.
He placed his hand on the mantle.
The flames exploded white.
A roar of wind spiraled through the courtyard, ripping banners from their poles and nearly smashing torches into the ground. White wasn't a lineage color. It wasn't a symbol. It was raw prophecy—dangerous, chaotic, uncontrolled.
People screamed. The drums silenced themselves.
Oran staggered backward as if struck. His chest heaved. His eyes widened, torn between fear and awe.
Then—slowly, painfully—he raised his hand and pointed.
At Nkemesit.
Gasps shattered the air.
He had rejected Nkema—the fire, the expected heir, the destined bride.
He had chosen the quiet one.
The wrong one.
Nkema didn't move. Couldn't move. Her humiliation was a living creature clawing through her ribs. Her destiny cracked in half in front of the kingdom.
But deeper beneath her rage… something else stirred.
The forbidden secret whispered.
Eat the heart of a king.
Take the power denied you.
Become what the third daughter was meant to balance.
A storm gathered in her eyes.
Queen Avela trembled. "Let the choice stand," she whispered. "The ancestors hide their faces. That means the world is shifting."
The drums hesitantly resumed. The ceremony crawled forward, forced into motion.
The marriages were completed that night.
Prince Oran wed Nkemesit—the unexpected bride.
Prince Kelan accepted Nkema, though the cold promise in her gaze made even him uneasy.
Three days later, King Akor died.
The next morning, Queen Avela was buried alive beside him, as tradition demanded. Earth sealed them together in the dark.
Far away, in the river hut, Mother Isalena felt the ground tremble.
A destiny had broken.
A forbidden path had opened.
And a hunger older than kingdoms began to gnaw at the soul of her firstborn.
The hunger for the heart of a king.