The forest grew denser as Uzoaru continued her journey, the light barely breaking through the canopy above. The air was heavier here, thick with incense-like aroma and the rustle of unseen wings. Every sound echoed—every branch that snapped underfoot felt like it disturbed something ancient and watching.
She had entered Ukpabi's Passage, a sacred grove feared by even the bravest hunters. Legends said it was where the ancestors whispered to the living and judged the hearts of those who dared walk through.
Uzoaru slowed her steps.
The path ahead forked into three. One was straight and wide, another narrow and thorny, and the last curved like a serpent through mist.
As she stood uncertain, a cold breeze swept through the grove. From it emerged a glowing figure wrapped in white—a woman whose face was both familiar and foreign.
"Uzoaru," the figure said, her voice like the ringing of bells.
Uzoaru dropped to her knees. "Who are you?"
"I am your grandmother—Ejemma, daughter of Abiriba. You carry her strength in your blood."
Uzoaru's breath caught. She had heard stories of Ejemma—how she once challenged a corrupt elder and led a women's revolt with only a calabash and a flute. She had disappeared into the hills, and no one saw her again.
"Why are you here?" Uzoaru asked.
"To guide you. And to warn you."
Ejemma's form began to flicker like candlelight. "The prince you seek to save—his fate is tied to the spirits of Uhamiri, the river of memory. His soul is not merely ill; it is trapped in a dream woven by ancestors angry at the king's broken promises."
Uzoaru's eyes widened. "What promises?"
"Your prince's father made a vow when he took the crown—to protect the sacred shrines of the land. But in pride and ambition, he allowed foreign builders to destroy the oldest of them to pave roads and make room for stone houses. The spirits of the land are not easily insulted."
Uzoaru clenched her fists. "Then how do I save Nwabueze?"
"You must retrieve the Okwa Ndu, the bowl of life, hidden beyond the Valley of Bones. Only it can call the prince's spirit back from the dream. But beware—those who seek it must sacrifice something dear."
The three paths shimmered, revealing glimpses of what lay beyond: the straight path showed Nwabueze smiling and reaching out to her; the thorny one showed her alone, bleeding and cold; and the misted path showed nothing but her own reflection.
"Choose, child of Abiriba," Ejemma said.
Uzoaru stood tall and whispered, "The thorned path. I did not come here to be spared pain."
The ancestor smiled faintly, then faded into wind and silence.
Uzoaru stepped onto the thorny trail, each step tearing at her feet, but her heart burned with clarity. Love was not ease—it was endurance.
Far across the land, in a cragged ravine filled with strange blue mist, Nwanne crouched beside a fire, her dark eyes scanning a scroll the old seer had given her. The scroll was covered in unfamiliar runes that moved as she read them.
She had passed through no spirits, no ancestor visions—only silence, and the growing sense that something inside her was beginning to warp. Her dreams were filled with flames. Sometimes she awoke gasping, her hands glowing faintly red.
She knew the dark seer had said there would be consequences.
But she didn't care.
"Let Uzoaru play at goodness," she muttered. "The prince will choose the one who saves him. Not the one who waits."
She held the scroll closer to the firelight and saw the symbol for Okwa Ndu burn into focus.
"So... that's where you're going," she murmured, lips curling.
She didn't need visions to find her rival.
She would find Uzoaru. And she would reach the bowl first.
Even if it meant stepping through every shadow left behind by forgotten gods.