Dawn bled gold across the skies as Ayọ̀kúnlé, Adérónké, and Tùndé stood at the city gates, ready for their journey to the Cradle of Spirits. The gates of Odanjo, now fortified with the magic of the Heart, gleamed with ancient runes that pulsed softly. Crowds had gathered to see them off not in sorrow, but with pride.
"Bring us the light," called an elder from the crowd.
"And may the gods walk beside you," said another.
Ayọ̀kúnlé bowed deeply. "We go not as heroes, but as your sons and daughters. We will return."
Their journey began along the old forest road, where trees grew close together and the canopy turned day into twilight. Birds called warnings in shrill tongues, and the wind whispered in forgotten languages. Móyẹ̀ṣọ́lá, their new guide, led them with steady confidence. She moved like one born of mist, her feet silent on leaves and her senses attuned to every shift in the air.
"This path has not been walked in centuries," she said, pushing back a branch. "Few return from it. Those who do speak of visions, of trials crafted by spirits who test the worth of all who seek the Cradle."
Ayọ̀kúnlé glanced at Adérónké, who was already unsheathing her blade. Tùndé just cracked his knuckles.
"Then let them test us," Ayọ̀kúnlé said.
The first day passed with quiet tension. Strange cries echoed in the trees, and once, they saw glowing eyes watching from the shadows. That night, they set up camp by a crescent-shaped spring, its waters unnaturally still.
Móyẹ̀ṣọ́lá warned, "Do not drink. This water shows truths not all are ready to see."
Still, curiosity overtook Ayọ̀kúnlé. He knelt beside it and looked into its mirror-like surface.
A vision appeared his father, the late king, weeping alone in the royal garden. The scene shifted to his mother casting protective wards over his cradle, her eyes filled with fear. And then a final image: Ayọ̀kúnlé as a child, reaching toward a shadow that whispered promises of power.
He recoiled.
"The past has claws," Móyẹ̀ṣọ́lá said. "But it does not bind you. Only your choices do."
They continued on. On the third day, the path narrowed into a ravine, flanked by walls of stone carved with forgotten glyphs. Here, the first trial awaited.
A stone sentinel blocked their way a towering golem with a face of cracked marble and a voice like grinding boulders.
"Who walks the path of spirits?" it boomed.
Ayọ̀kúnlé stepped forward. "We do. In search of the Fifth Relic."
The golem's eyes glowed. "Then you must answer the riddle of truth. Speak only what your soul believes, or be turned to stone."
The riddle was thus:
"What is it that walks blind yet sees all, Is silent yet speaks, Holds no form yet shapes kingdoms?"
They stood in silence, each afraid to be wrong.
Adérónké whispered, "Time?"
Tùndé said, "A dream?"
But Ayọ̀kúnlé closed his eyes and said, "Faith."
The golem's eyes dimmed. A low rumble echoed through the ravine, and the sentinel stepped aside.
"You may pass," it said.
Móyẹ̀ṣọ́lá nodded. "You listen well to your heart, Prince."
They pressed on through thickets and canyons. Their sleep was haunted by dreams, and their strength tested at every step. On the fifth night, fireflies surrounded them in a perfect circle, and from within the glowing ring stepped an old woman cloaked in moonlight.
"You seek the Cradle," she said. "But will you pay the price it demands?"
"What is the price?" Ayọ̀kúnlé asked.
She smiled, revealing teeth of starlight. "To reach the Cradle, one must give up what they love most."
Adérónké stiffened.
"That is not a choice we can make lightly," Tùndé said.
"It never is," the woman replied. Then she vanished.
Silence fell.
Ayọ̀kúnlé looked at his friends. "We came knowing the path would cost us. We must be ready."
The next morning, they climbed the final ridge and saw it a vast valley filled with light, trees made of crystal, and a river that sang. At the center was a massive stone altar: the Cradle of Spirits.
And beside it hovered the Fifth Relic.
They approached slowly. With each step, their fears rose: visions of failure, loss, and death.
Ayọ̀kúnlé stepped onto the altar.
The relic responded.
A voice rang out:
"To take the relic, you must leave behind what you fear to lose most."
Ayọ̀kúnlé closed his eyes. He thought of Adérónké. Of Odanjo. Of peace.
And then he whispered, "I give up my claim to the throne."
A shockwave burst from the altar. The relic descended into his hands, pulsing with radiant energy.
The Cradle of Spirits glowed. The sky sang.
Ayọ̀kúnlé had passed the test.
But the final battle still loomed.
As dawn painted golden streaks across the Odanjoan sky, Ayọ̀kúnlé, Adérónké, Tùndé, and Móyèṣọlá departed the city gates, their path flanked by chanting citizens offering blessings for a safe return. The weight of their mission made each step heavier, but within that gravity burned an unshakable determination.
Their journey began through the whispering groves of Òkè Ẹ̀rù, where every leaf carried echoes of ancient secrets. Móyèṣọlá led the way with quiet reverence, her silver eyes ever-watchful. She murmured incantations beneath her breath, protecting them from spirits that drifted through the trees like mist.
"What exactly is the Cradle of Spirits?" Tùndé asked, adjusting the strap on his shoulder.
"It is the place where the veil between the living and the dead is thinnest," Móyèṣọlá said. "Where forgotten ancestors wait, not in silence, but in expectation."
Adérónké raised a brow. "Expectation of what?"
"Of reckoning."
By the third day, the forest thinned, giving way to obsidian plains and jagged rock formations shaped by centuries of wind. The stars above grew brighter at night, their constellations shifting unnaturally. Even Ayọ̀kúnlé, once skeptical of celestial omens, began to feel the cosmos watching.
At dusk on the fourth day, they arrived at a ravine cut deep into the earth. At its bottom, nestled like an egg in a stone nest, lay the Cradle a temple carved from luminous bone-white stone, glowing faintly with spiritual energy.
But they were not alone.
As they began their descent, shadowy figures emerged from the opposite ridge tall, twisted beings cloaked in robes made of stitched darkness. Their eyes glowed a venomous yellow.
"Voidbound," Móyèṣọlá hissed. "Servants of the Shadow King."
"They beat us here," Adérónké muttered, drawing her twin blades.
Ayọ̀kúnlé stepped forward, summoning the Relics' magic. The air shimmered around him as the runes along his arms blazed to life. "Then we take the Cradle by storm."
The clash was immediate. Blades met blackened claws, and the narrow paths turned into battlegrounds of light and shadow. Tùndé fought like a man possessed, striking with a mix of fury and precision. Móyèṣọlá's chants called up gusts of divine wind, sending enemies tumbling into the ravine.
Ayọ̀kúnlé faced one of the largest Voidbound warriors, their weapons clashing in a violent dance. Each strike sent ripples of energy through the ravine. Then, with a burst of will, Ayọ̀kúnlé channeled the energy of the fourth relic. A spectral lion roared to life from his palm and pounced, devouring the shadow creature in radiant flame.
By dawn, the battle was won but not without cost. Adérónké had taken a deep gash to the shoulder, and Móyèṣọlá's strength was waning. Still, they pressed into the temple.
Inside, a hush fell. The temple's core chamber was a dome lit by floating orbs of spirit-light. At its center stood a pedestal, upon which rested a crystalline pendant glowing with hues of stormy blue and white.
Ayọ̀kúnlé approached, but before he could reach it, a voice rang out not aloud, but in his mind.
"You who bear the burdens of fate, step forward and face your reflection."
The room darkened, and a figure materialized in front of him himself, but cloaked in shadow.
"I am the fear you buried," the doppelgänger said. "The doubt you hide. Do you think yourself worthy of unity, of leadership?"
"I don't know if I'm worthy," Ayọ̀kúnlé said, "but I know I must try. For Odanjo. For our future."
"Then show me your truth."
The battle wasn't physical it was one of spirit. Every time Ayọ̀kúnlé doubted himself, the shadow grew stronger. But then he remembered his mother's lullabies, Tùndé's loyalty, Adérónké's fierce trust, the children singing in the streets of Odanjo. He steadied himself.
"I am not the curse. I am the bearer of hope."
The shadow screamed and shattered. The pendant floated into his palm, wrapping his wrist in a band of living light.
He turned to the others. "The Fifth Relic is ours."
Móyèṣọlá knelt, tears in her eyes. "You have passed the test of spirit. The last relic remains... but it lies in the hands of the Shadow King."
Ayọ̀kúnlé looked out beyond the temple walls, toward the far horizon. The stormclouds were gathering again.
"We go to him next."
And the final war began to stir.
To be continued...