By the third day of the journey, the rhythm of footsteps and rustling leaves became a song of its own. Uzoaru and Nwanne walked at a careful distance, their silence not of peace, but of unspoken truce. The forest they crossed now was different—quieter, older. Trees with bark black as coal loomed overhead, their twisted branches like arms in prayer or warning.
Obim, ever alert, held up a hand to pause them.
"We've entered Oke Ndụ—the Grove of Forgotten Whispers," he said. "Even birds fear to sing here."
Nwanne scoffed softly but not loudly enough to invite misfortune. She had begun to feel things—shadows tugging at her spirit, old regrets whispering in her sleep. Last night, she dreamed of her mother's scolding voice and the day she chose to leave the prince's side.
Uzoaru, too, felt a weight pressing on her. But hers was not of guilt, but burden. The path had grown more sacred, and she could feel eyes—ancient eyes—watching. Her grandmother once told her that this grove was where Eke-Ala, the keeper of balance, slumbered.
They moved forward cautiously, stepping between roots that twisted like old scars in the ground. A strange wind began to blow—one that carried no leaves, no sound. Just a feeling. A presence.
Then they heard it.
A voice, soft and familiar.
"Nwabueze…"
Uzoaru's heart dropped. It was the prince's voice. She turned swiftly, searching.
Again it came. "Help me… Uzoaru…"
She rushed forward, eyes wide with hope.
But Obim shouted, "Don't listen! The forest speaks in false tongues!"
It was too late.
Vines erupted from the ground, wrapping around her ankles. The trees twisted into faces—faces of elders, of family, even of Nwabueze. They laughed and cried in the same breath.
Nwanne screamed. "She's trapped!"
Obim sprang into action, chanting an incantation in an old dialect. His voice echoed through the grove, reverberating like a drumbeat. The vines hissed but held on.
Uzoaru, struggling, called out, "They're showing me… my fears. My doubts."
"Yes," Obim said. "This grove reflects what weighs on your soul. You must face it or be swallowed by it."
Uzoaru closed her eyes.
She saw herself seated beside the prince, a crown on her head—but everyone turned their backs to her. Her people muttered. "She does not deserve it. She only followed."
Then the image faded. She was alone. Forgotten. Even the prince looked past her.
"No," she whispered. "That is not who I am."
Her voice steadied. "I do not walk this path for glory. Not for approval. Not even for love alone. I walk it because I was called. Because he matters. Because I matter."
A sudden gust blew through the grove.
The vines loosened.
She fell to her knees, gasping, free.
Nwanne helped her up. "Are you alright?"
Uzoaru nodded, looking into her rival's eyes. "The grove shows truths twisted into lies. Be careful."
Nwanne glanced around warily. "It hasn't spoken to me."
Obim tilted his head. "It may yet. The grove chooses when to whisper, and whom to test."
They moved on in silence, stepping with greater reverence. Hours later, as the sun began to fade behind the trees, they emerged from the darkness of the grove into an open clearing, where a solitary stone sat in the center—smooth and wide like an altar.
Etched on its surface were markings of Nsibidi—ancient symbols that pulsed faintly with ancestral light.
Obim translated: "Only the one whose spirit is still, may drink from the stream of the ancestors."
A narrow stream flowed nearby, shimmering faintly with light. The water was rumored to cleanse the path ahead and open the next gate. But who would drink first?
Nwanne stepped forward, but the water repelled her hand with a hiss. She pulled back in pain.
Uzoaru stepped forward calmly, knelt, and cupped the water to her lips.
It tasted like ash and honey.
Then the stone cracked open slightly, revealing a hidden path lit by fireflies that danced like spirits in the air.
Obim whispered in awe, "The gate has opened."
And so they walked forward again—into the unknown, into the firelight, into whatever came next.
Behind them, the grove whispered once more.
This time, to Nwanne alone.
"Your heart is not yet decided…"