The earth did not scream when she vanished.
That was how Chukwudi knew something was terribly wrong.
No tremor.
No cry from the roots.
No answering pulse beneath his feet.
Only silence—deep, hollow, unnatural.
He stood alone at the place where the Snake Mother had fallen, staring at soil that still bore the warmth of her presence but no longer moved to greet him. The ground felt… cautious. As if it were no longer sure who he was.
"She's gone," Adaeze whispered.
Her voice cracked like dry wood.
The cursed children stood scattered around the clearing, their covenant marks dimmer now, flickering like dying embers. Without the Snake Mother anchoring the balance, the bond between them felt unstable—tight in some places, loose in others, as though it might snap or strangle them at any moment.
Chukwudi dropped to his knees.
He pressed his palms to the earth.
"Mother," he whispered.
Nothing answered.
---
Across the land, shrines began to fail.
In villages that had never heard Chukwudi's name, sacred snakes slithered away from their stones. Rivers tied to ancient rites dried overnight. Pregnant women dreamed of roots crawling into their wombs and woke screaming.
Priests panicked.
Dibia gathered in circles and argued until blood was spilled.
Something fundamental had shifted.
The Snake Mother—bound now into soil and water, fragmented and hidden—could no longer intercede.
The earth had lost its interpreter.
And gods noticed.
---
Far above mortal land, in a place where the sky folded into itself, the council gathered again.
"She cheated death," snarled one.
"No," another replied grimly. "The child cheated us."
A basin showed visions: Chukwudi kneeling in ash, the cursed children trembling, humans already reacting to the imbalance.
"The world feels her absence," said a third. "And they will seek someone to blame."
Silence.
Then one voice spoke, cold and precise:
"Let them blame the boy."
---
The first riots began before nightfall.
Villages near the cursed lands armed themselves, chanting protection charms backwards, convinced it would confuse the spirits. Mothers smeared ash on their children's faces to hide them from the earth's gaze. Men sharpened god-bone blades with shaking hands.
They whispered a single word:
"Heavenbreaker."
Chukwudi felt it like needles under his skin.
"They're afraid," he said quietly.
"Yes," Adaeze replied. "And fear wants blood."
---
That night, the earth finally spoke.
Not with warmth.
Not with guidance.
With warning.
Chukwudi doubled over as the soil beneath him throbbed violently. Images flooded his mind: rivers splitting their banks, mountains collapsing into cities, weapons rising from forges, Idemili Ọbara coiled in delight around a throne of bones.
And worse—
A future where the cursed children lay dead at his feet.
"Leave," the earth urged him—not in words, but in pressure. In pain. In refusal.
"You don't want me anymore," Chukwudi whispered.
The ground did not deny it.
---
Idemili came that night.
Not in dreams.
In flesh.
She stepped from a pool of blood where no pool had been, her coils gleaming, her eyes bright with victory.
"Well done," she purred. "You broke the world's spine."
Chukwudi rose slowly, blade half-formed in his grip.
"You planned this."
She laughed softly.
"I merely nudged. The council struck. You chose."
She circled him, inspecting the land.
"Without her," Idemili continued, "the earth will become cruel. Unbalanced. It will lash out."
"Stop," Chukwudi growled.
She leaned close, breath hot and wet.
"You can't," she whispered. "But you can rule what follows."
Behind him, the cursed children screamed as the covenant flared painfully.
Idemili smiled wider.
"Come with me," she said. "Before humans finish what the gods started."
---
Chukwudi stood between blood and soil.
Between extinction and tyranny.
Between becoming a monster—or becoming something worse.
He looked down at the trembling earth.
At the fading marks on his companions' skin.
At the blade that could end gods but not choices.
"I won't kneel," he said.
Idemili's eyes gleamed.
"Good," she replied. "Then run."
The ground shook.
From every direction, torches flared.
Horns sounded.
The world, motherless and afraid, was coming for him.