The village of Amaizu rested in the warm cradle of the Abiriba hills, its red earth glowing beneath the morning sun. Palm trees swayed with a lazy rhythm, and smoke curled gently from thatched kitchens as women prepared the first meal of the day. Drums echoed faintly in the distance — not for a festival, but to announce the gathering of elders at the king's palace.
Inside the palace, a different rhythm beat — one of concern, uncertainty, and fear.
Prince Nwabueze, heir to the throne of Amaizu, lay motionless on a carved ebony bed draped in white raffia linen. Beads of sweat glistened on his brow, and his once-proud gaze now flickered weakly beneath half-closed lids. The sickness had come swiftly, like a thief in the night. One moment, he stood tall in the village square, arguing passionately with his father about the outdated nature of certain traditions; the next, he collapsed without warning.
His ailment defied the healing touch of the royal dibia and confounded even the midwives from neighboring clans. It was not fever. It was not poison. It was, the elders began to whisper, something deeper… something spiritual.
"Obu arụrụ ala," one elder muttered — a defilement of the land, or perhaps the anger of the gods.
King Nkemakolam, grey-bearded and fierce-eyed, watched his only son with a clenched jaw. His royal robes hung loose, and the sacred ivory staff he carried felt heavier than ever. His heart carried both love and disappointment — love for his son, but frustration that the boy never heeded wise counsel. For months, Nwabueze had rejected the sacred rites, mocked the spirit seers, and spoken of a "new age." Now, the same traditions he scorned might be the only key to his salvation.
The king turned as the palace gates creaked open.
"My king," said the palace messenger, kneeling low. "She has arrived."
King Nkemakolam nodded solemnly. "Let her enter."
Into the dim chamber stepped Uzoaru, a young maiden whose beauty was rivalled only by the quiet strength she carried. Her wrapper was simple, but her stride was graceful, and her eyes held the steadiness of someone who had already chosen her path. Though tears brimmed in her eyes at the sight of Nwabueze's condition, she did not falter.
"My king," she greeted softly, kneeling.
"Uzoaru," the king said, his voice hushed, "You know why you are here."
She nodded. "I will go, Your Majesty. I will find the cure. Even if it lies beyond the mountains, beyond the lands we know."
The king studied her. She was the only one who remained close since Nwabueze fell ill. Many had whispered behind their hands that she was foolish for loving a dying man. Others had praised her loyalty. But now, she stood to prove herself in a way none could have foreseen.
"You will need protection," the king said. "You must see the seeress."
He motioned for the guards, and Uzoaru was escorted through a private passage in the palace to the sacred grove — the abode of Madam Ijendu, the spirit-touched woman who rarely emerged from her shrine.
Madam Ijendu sat cross-legged beneath an iroko tree, her grey hair braided with cowries, her face marked with ash and red ochre. Smoke danced around her in slow, sacred spirals.
"You seek to journey on behalf of love," the seeress said before Uzoaru could speak. "That is noble. But this path is not for the faint."
Uzoaru nodded. "I have made my choice."
The seeress placed a calabash before her, whispered incantations, and dipped her fingers into the dark liquid within. "Drink. Be fortified. But remember — even love must be tested by sacrifice."
As Uzoaru drank, a warmth spread through her body. A vision flashed before her eyes: a winding forest trail, a river of fire, and two shadows walking side by side. She gasped and opened her eyes.
Two?