Stylwater was a city caught between eras, a reluctant limb of the Liptus Kingdom, straining against both tradition and decay. Nestled on the fringes of a wide saltwater estuary that once fed fleets of fisherfolk and river traders, it had grown haphazardly, more like coral than a city. The old Kingdom of Liptus banners still hung in certain quarters, faded symbols of dynasties that had long since lost their grip. Yet the city's soul remained stubbornly intact, one of rhythm, resilience, and wary silence.
The truck clattered into the heart of Odi'Lale, Stylwater's oldest district, where the cobbled streets twisted like scars between crumbling colonial facades and newer, slapdash concrete additions. Tin rooftops clinked under the heat. Electric wires dangled like garlands across narrow alleys.
Chinakah eased the truck to a halt beside a group of street vendors, their stalls slumped under the weight of smoked catfish, woven baskets, and bundles of bitterleaf. Women in faded iro and buba watched the travelers with guarded eyes as barefoot children darted past. A drumming circle echoed faintly in the distance, but it was muffled — like everything else in Stylwater — by the thick humidity and a creeping sense of time gone wrong.
Leonotis stuck his head slightly out the window, his expression caught between intrigue and unease. There was color here — dyed fabrics drying on lines, murals of ancestral warriors, and the sharp scent of ata rodo peppers wafting from a nearby chop shop — but there was also ruin. Buildings leaned against each other like weary elders. Nothing was straight. Nothing was clean. The city felt both watched and forgotten, suspended in a lull between gods and governance.
They passed an intersection marked by an ancient tree whose bark had been carved with Ifá symbols. At its base, a shrine cradled offerings — kola nuts, rusted coins, a cracked calabash bowl of gin. Gethii bowed his head as they passed it. Leonotis glanced at him, curious, but said nothing.
And then the orphanage.
The building squatted behind a rusting iron gate, its bones colonial but exhausted. Time had sucked the life from its plastered skin, leaving behind streaks of mold and grime like war paint. The hand-painted sign overhead, "Stylwater Orphanage: A Home for Hope," was crooked, the last word half-faded as though even hope had decided to leave early.
Gethii's expression turned somber as he gazed at the building. "This is it," he said, his voice low. "I… I grew up here. Back then, though, the administration was different. Old Man Fuzo and his wife ran the place. Stern, but… not unkind."
They climbed out of the truck, the silence broken only by the distant cries of gulls. As they approached the heavy oak door, it creaked open, revealing a woman with sharp, angular features and eyes that seemed to miss nothing. Her hair was pulled so tightly back into a bun that her forehead gleamed. Her wrapper was crisp, Ankara of deep indigo with the crest of a local civic faction stitched at the hem, a sign that she served some bureaucratic allegiance, though what kind was unclear.
"Can I help you?" she asked, her voice devoid of warmth.
"We're looking for Director Fuzo," Gethii said, stepping forward. "I… I used to be in his care."
The woman's gaze narrowed. "Director Fuzo and his wife are no longer here. I am the acting director. My name is… Mapoza."
"Oh," Gethii said, a flicker of concern in his eyes. "Where did they go?"
"They had to go to the capital a few weeks back," Mapoza said, her tone clipped. "To… discuss funding with the King."
Chinakah exchanged a worried glance with Gethii. A trip to the King for funding didn't sound like a short errand.
"Right," Gethii said slowly. "Well, we have a young boy here, Leonotis. He needs a place to stay temporarily, until we return from… our own visit to the King."
Mapoza's gaze flickered to Leonotis, who stood clutching his small bag, looking lost and apprehensive. After a moment of consideration, she nodded curtly. "We have space. There'll be a fee."
Gethii quickly produced a small pouch of coins. Mapoza accepted it without a word. "How old are you, boy?" she asked Leonotis, her sharp eyes scrutinizing him.
Leonotis opened his mouth to answer, then his eyes flickered to Gethii, a silent reminder passing between them. "I… I just turned ten," he stammered, feeling a pang of guilt at the lie.
Mapoza's eyes narrowed, a flicker of shrewd assessment within them, before she gave a curt nod. "Follow me." She led them through a dimly lit hallway that smelled faintly of mildew and despair. She stopped at a door and pushed it open, revealing a large room filled with rows of narrow, wood-framed beds. A handful of boys, their faces pale and their clothes threadbare, stared at the newcomers with dull eyes.
Chinakah and Gethii helped Leonotis carry his small bag to an empty bed in the corner. The thin mattress looked lumpy and uncomfortable. As they turned to leave, to say their goodbyes, Leonotis suddenly felt a prickling sensation on the back of his neck. He glanced towards the window and caught a fleeting glimpse of a face disappearing behind the tattered curtains.
Gethii, noticing Leonotis's unease, followed his gaze. "Probably just one of the other kids, hiding," he said with a reassuring smile that didn't quite reach his eyes.
They knelt down, one on either side of Leonotis. "Be brave, little one," Chinakah said, her voice softer than usual. "If everything goes well with the King, we'll be back to get you in about a month."
A month felt like an eternity to Leonotis. He nodded, trying to appear braver than he felt.
The director clapped her hands sharply. "Out to the yard, all of you. Chores await." She gestured for Leonotis to follow the other boys, her gaze already distant.
The orphanage yard was a bleak, dusty patch of ground enclosed by a high metal fence. The other boys moved with a weary resignation. One of them, a skinny boy with hollow eyes, approached Leonotis. "Welcome to hell," he said, his voice flat. "How old are you?"
"Twelve," Leonotis blurted out, the carefully rehearsed "ten" completely forgotten in his nervousness.
A flicker of something – hope? – crossed the boy's gaunt face, but it vanished as quickly as it appeared. "Twelve," he repeated tonelessly. "Right. If you ever figure out a way to get out of this place, let me know. I've never been able to find one."
In a shadowy corner of the yard, a young girl with wide, observant eyes watched their interaction.
That night, Leonotis tossed and turned on his lumpy mattress. He drifted into a dream, a vivid image of a beautiful woman with long, flowing hair, but her face remained frustratingly out of focus. "Who are you?" he asked, his voice echoing in the dream. She simply smiled, a sad, knowing smile. "Come to me; we need your help," she whispered. Then, the scene shifted. The beautiful woman was gone, replaced by his father, his face contorted in pain, wrapped in thick, black tree branches. His father's eyes glowed with an unnatural green light. "Help me, son," he rasped, his voice filled with terror.
Leonotis woke with a gasp, the word "Father!" escaping his lips. He sat up, his heart pounding, but the details of the dream had already begun to slip away like water through his fingers. He lay back down, a vague sense of unease clinging to him, and eventually drifted back to sleep.
The next day at the Stylwater Orphanage was a brutal induction — not unlike an initiation rite, but without the ceremony, without the honor. In the Kingdom of Liptus, there were rituals for crossing thresholds: a child's first steps, the first tooth, the first hunt, the first rain of the season. Each had its songs, its prayers, its presence of elders. But Leonotis' first day here came with no drums, no incantations — only grime, labor, and the suffocating scent of bleach and boiled yam.
The sackcloth uniform scratched like punishment. Rough, woven from burlap or something close to it, it hung awkwardly on his small frame. It wasn't clothing — it was a statement: you belong to no one now. The seams rubbed raw against his underarms, and by midday, small welts had begun to form beneath his collarbone. The odor in the building was a sour mix — shea butter, stale egusi, wet floors, and the sharp chemical bite of lye soap that soaked everything: their clothes, their skin, their beds.
Chores began at daybreak, when the akọko leaves outside the dorm rustled with the breeze and the cockerel crowed from the compound wall. They were marched out in rows, barefoot, into the yard where buckets were waiting. Slop buckets, heavy with rotting food and bathwater, were dumped into a pit behind the latrines. Leonotis, new and small, had to drag his alone. The Yoruba believed work built character, but here, it felt like it was breaking him down instead — unmaking him.
"Let us labor by day so we do not see shame by night."
That was the phrase the senior caretaker barked at them as they scrubbed the dorm floors with their bare hands. It was one of many proverbs that floated through the halls like scripture, wielded more like sticks than songs of wisdom.
Leonotis scrubbed until his fingers wrinkled and burned, the soapy water stinging cuts he hadn't noticed. The sun blazed through the open slats of the windows, and sweat slid into his eyes. His arms ached with the rhythm of work, the Oriki, or praise-songs of his ancestors, now buried beneath grime and fatigue.
When he finally laid down, the straw mattress scratching his cheek, his muscles screamed in protest. He closed his eyes, and for a fleeting moment, he felt the weight of a sword hilt, heard Gethii's low command: *"Exercise every day, Leonotis. Practice the sword techniques with a pencil if you must."* The memory was a cruel whisper in the face of his utter depletion. A pencil? He barely had the strength to lift his own hand.
When they were finally given food, it came in a rusted tin bowl — watery stew, more liquid than substance, with a hint of spice and a few floating shreds of spinach. He sat alone on the edge of a concrete step, the bowl warming his numb hands. His stomach growled, but every swallow felt like chewing silence.
That's when he saw her again — the girl from earlier in the yard. Her name, he had learned from a whispered correction during roll call, was Low.
She approached quietly, the hem of her white cotton dress brushing against the dusty floor. Unlike the other girls, she moved with a lightness, as if she knew how to tiptoe between trouble and attention. Her dreadlocks were striking — thick coils that faded from deep black at the roots to a radiant blonde, almost as if the sun had taken root in her hair. Her face was calm, open, with large brown eyes that seemed to listen more than look.
She didn't ask permission to sit. She just did.
Leonotis looked up warily.
Low didn't smile. But she offered a sliver of cassava root, pressed into his hand with a quiet, unceremonious grace. Sharing food in Liptus tradition was not just kindness — it was trust, a sacred act of hospitality, a kinship gesture that defied rules and hierarchy.
"You new?" she asked softly, picking at her own bowl with practiced detachment.
Leonotis nodded, too tired to form words. He took the cassava slowly, chewing without tasting.
"They always push the new ones harder," she murmured. "To see if you'll break. Like goat's skin on the talking drum — if it's too soft, it won't speak. Too tight, it snaps."
She looked at him. Her eyes held something ancient. Not pity. Recognition.
"You're not going to snap. I can tell."
Leonotis didn't believe her. Not yet. But her voice was the first thing all day that didn't hurt.
"I saw you getting dropped off. Did your parents… did they die in the war?" she asked, her voice quiet.
"No," Leonotis said, frowning. "What war?"
A surprised silence fell over the small group of children huddled around the table. "You don't know about the war?" one of the older boys asked. He glanced around at the others, then back at Leonotis. "You mean, not at all?"
Leonotis hesitated, wondering if he should mention his amnesia, but the thought felt too complicated to explain.
Low's expression was somber. "My parents were sent to explore the Dark Forest by the old King," she said, her voice barely a whisper. "They never came back. Then my older brother was called up… and so I ended up here."
"My mother was attacked by a tree creature," Leonotis said. "And my father… he was kidnapped by it."
Low looked surprised. "Plant monsters are from the Dark Forest and they don't usually come this far south. Your father… he's probably gone too."
"No," Leonotis said fiercely, a stubborn hope rising within him. "He's alive. I know it. And I'm going to rescue him as soon as Chinakah and Gethii come back from visiting the King."
The other children exchanged knowing glances. "If the King called them," one of the older girls said with a bitter laugh, "they aren't coming back."
A cold dread washed over Leonotis. He looked at the faces around him, each one etched with a quiet despair. He realized then that every one of them had a guardian, a parent, someone who had been called to serve the King… and never returned. A knot of worry tightened in his stomach for Chinakah and Gethii. Why hadn't they mentioned how dangerous the King seemed?
"Don't try to leave on your own," Low said quietly, her eyes filled with a grim understanding. "The ones who try to leave… they never come back the same."
The next morning, as Leonotis was scrubbing the grimy floor of the dining hall, the hulking caretaker, a man with a permanent scowl, stopped beside him. "Heard you're actually twelve years old, boy."
Leonotis's heart leaped into his throat. He'd only told one person that – the skinny boy from the first night. He glanced around the room, but the boy wasn't among the other children. He hadn't seen him since that first evening.
Later, he found Low tending a small patch of wilting flowers in the otherwise barren yard. "Low," he said urgently, "the caretaker knows I'm twelve. How…?"
Low looked surprised, then a shadow crossed her face. "That boy… the one you were talking to the first night? Don't trust him. He's been here since I arrived, three years ago. He should have been sent to the war when he turned thirteen, since he was never adopted, but he's still here. He's… odd."
"But did he tell the caretaker my real age?" Leonotis asked, confused and a little scared.
Low shrugged. "Maybe they just guessed. Or maybe… maybe he tells them things," she said.
"I'm twelve too. I'll be of age soon."
"Will you… will you have to go to the war?" Leonotis asked.
Low gave a harsh, humorless laugh. "Women aren't allowed in the army. The orphanage will just sell me off to the highest bidder. Married off to some farmer's son who can't find a wife any other way." Her eyes hardened. "The same will happen to you, now that they know you're twelve. Once they figure out if you have any magical 'attributes,' you'll be sold to some wealthy family to breed more little mages."
"Gethii and Chinakah will be back for me before that could happen."
"Are they telling the king good news or bad news?" Low said, her hands on her hips.
"Welll, it isn't good news but… I was already tested," Leonotis said, a desperate hope flickering within him. "I don't have any magic."
Low's expression turned even grimmer. "Then you're in an even worse position. They'll probably just send you straight to the war. No one wants a non-magical twelve-year-old boy for breeding." She looked around the yard, her eyes darting nervously. "Listen, Leonotis. I can't stay here. I won't let them sell me off. The way out… I think I know a way. If you want to come with me… we can leave together."
Leonotis was jolted awake by a gentle hand shaking his shoulder. Low's face, usually hardened with a weary resignation, was now alight with a nervous energy. "Leonotis," she whispered urgently, her voice barely audible above the soft snores of the other boys. "For the auction… are you absolutely sure you're going to tell that ogre of a Director your birthday is tomorrow?"
Leonotis, still groggy, nodded firmly. "Yes. Thirteen tomorrow." A small, rebellious thrill flickered within him at the thought of this new deception.
Low's grip tightened on his arm. "Good. When they come for you, to take you to the… auction area, I'll follow. It's supposed to be down in the old sewer system. We'll make our escape then, after I create a distraction. I managed to… acquire some tools." She reached into the folds of her threadbare dress and produced two crudely sharpened metal forks, their tines honed to points. "Are you sure you don't want one?"
Leonotis shook his head, reaching under his thin mattress. He pulled out the sturdy root he'd found by the gnarled tree in the yard, its shape surprisingly sword-like. "I have this."
Low eyed the stick with a mixture of skepticism and reluctant admiration. "Alright, then. Be careful with that. It's almost midnight. I need to go, before they notice I'm gone." She squeezed his arm again. "Be ready." With a final, furtive glance around the darkened room, she slipped away.
Leonotis lay back down, his heart pounding with a mixture of fear and anticipation. Sleep eventually claimed him, and he dreamt of a massive, vibrant garden, unlike anything he'd ever seen in the dusty orphanage. A winding path led towards a dark, mysterious cave nestled at the foot of a towering, ancient tree.
The next day crawled by with agonizing slowness. Leonotis and Low went to the dreary orphanage yard after their perfunctory chores. Low, her eyes sharp and focused, explained that she'd seen the male caregiver practicing with throwing knives when he thought no one was watching. So, while Leonotis practiced dodging and blocking imaginary blows with his stick, Low diligently hurled rocks at a cracked wooden fence, her aim improving with each throw. When her aim was sharp enough, she threw them at Leonotis, who blocked and dodged them easily.
"That stick…" Low said, pausing in her throwing practice, her gaze fixed on Leonotis's makeshift sword. "It really does look like a proper blade. Where did you find it?"
"Just by the big tree," Leonotis replied. He couldn't shake the feeling that the stick was somehow stronger than the last one he found. As if he could sense power radiating from it.
That night, as the meager dinner of watery soup was being served, the Director, her sharp eyes glinting in the dim light, approached Leonotis. "Tonight, you'll be having dinner at a… special place," she said, her tone devoid of any warmth. Two burly figures flanked her. They blindfolded him roughly and led him away, the rough fabric digging into his eyes.
Leonotis found himself standing on a makeshift stage, the rough wooden planks cold beneath his bare feet. The only real source of light in the cavernous room was a large, smooth stone pedestal in front of him, the Attribute Stone, glowing with a soft, internal luminescence. Dim torches flickered around the perimeter, casting long, dancing shadows that obscured the faces of the small crowd gathered in the darkness.
The Director stood beside him, her voice oily as she addressed the unseen audience. She described his "remarkable work ethic," his "unquestioning obedience," and the "untapped potential" she was sure he possessed. Then, she turned to Leonotis, her gaze cold and intimidating. "Touch the Stone, boy."
Leonotis's heart hammered in his chest. He tried to scan the shadowy crowd for any sign of Low, any hint of an escape route, but the darkness swallowed everything. "Come on," the Director hissed, her hand gripping his arm tightly.
With a trembling hand, Leonotis reached out and placed his palm on the smooth, cool surface of the Attribute Stone. For a moment, nothing happened. Then, a dark stain began to spread across the stone beneath his hand, like ink bleeding into water. Leonotis's heart sank. My black magic… it's coming back.
But then, the blackness began to swirl, and a vibrant, deep green started to emerge from within it, pushing back the darkness until the stone pulsed with a swirling vortex of emerald light. A collective gasp rippled through the crowd. The Director's jaw dropped in shock. Murmurs erupted from the shadows, followed by excited shouts. Numbers, each one higher than the last, echoed through the cavern as people began to surge forward, their shadowy figures scrambling over each other. "Get back!" the Director shrieked, her authority crumbling.
Leonotis stood frozen and utterly confused. Green was better than black, he supposed, but what did it even mean? Just then, a figure leaped from the shadows, throwing a cloud of white powder into the air. A makeshift smoke bomb, made of flour. Low!
Coughing erupted from the crowd as the flour filled the air. Low grabbed Leonotis's hand, her grip surprisingly strong, and pulled him off the stage. They plunged through a doorway in the confusion, the shouts and scrambling figures fading behind them.
After what felt like an eternity of running through damp, echoing tunnels, the stench of sewage filling their lungs, they finally stopped to catch their breath. "I think… I think we lost them," Low gasped, leaning against a slimy brick wall. She turned to Leonotis, her brow furrowed. "I thought you said you didn't have any magic. They tested you before, right?"
Leonotis shook his head, still trying to process the swirling green light. "They did. Nothing happened."
"Well, obviously you have a Green attribute," Low said, her voice hushed. "Quiet! There are rat monsters down here. We can finish this conversation later."
"My sword!" Leonotis exclaimed, suddenly remembering his stick. He hadn't had a chance to grab it before the Director's goons grabbed him.
They crept forward, Low leading the way through the labyrinthine tunnels. They reached a small alcove where Low had hidden their clothes and supplies. Leonotis saw his root sword, wrapped in a piece of scavenged cloth, leaning against the bag. A large, grotesque rat with glowing red eyes was gnawing at the edge of the bag. Low hissed and threw a sharp rock, scaring it away. Leonotis picked up his root sword, relief flooding him that Low had brought it. "There's food in the bag," she explained. "If one rat smelled it already, more will be coming soon."
He shed the rough orphanage uniform, the coarse fabric a familiar discomfort. Pulling on his own shirt and shorts felt like a reclaiming of himself. A genuine smile touched his lips as the simple clasp of his green warrior toga settled onto his shoulder. It wasn't armor or fine silks, just plain cloth, but wearing it felt like shrugging off a heavy cloak. He settled his hand on his hip, the gesture feeling natural, confident. Across the sewer, Low had also changed out of the usual drab uniform and now wore a plain white tank top stark against faded red shorts. "Where did you get your clothes?" Leonotis couldn't help but ask, the question escaping before he fully considered it. Low's reply was immediate and flat. "None of your business."
Just as she said it, two monstrous growls could be heard from the darkness. Two pairs of glowing red eyes emerged from the gloom, followed by the hulking shapes of the rat monsters. They were easily the size of dogs, their fur matted and bristling, their teeth long and yellowed, dripping with some unspeakable slime. They sniffed the air, their whiskered snouts twitching, fixated on Leonotis and Low.
Low reacted instantly. Her hand darted to a small pouch tied at her waist, and two smooth, fist-sized stones appeared as if by magic. With a grunt, she hurled the first stone. It whistled through the air and slammed into the side of the nearest rat's head with a sickening thud. The creature staggered, a high-pitched squeal of pain ripping from its throat, but it didn't go down.
Before the first rat could recover, Low launched the second stone. This one caught the other rat squarely in the snout. The impact made its head snap back, and it stumbled, momentarily disoriented.
"Leonotis! Now!" Low yelled, her voice echoing off the damp brick walls.
Leonotis, clutching his root-sword, moved with an agility he hadn't known he possessed. The root, gnarled and surprisingly dense, felt strangely natural in his hand. The first rat, its eyes blazing with fury, lunged at him, snapping its massive jaws. Leonotis sidestepped the attack, the rat's foul breath washing over him, and brought the root down in a swift arc. The impact against the rat's thick skull was solid, a dull *thwack* that made his arms vibrate.
The rat shrieked again, a more enraged sound this time, and swiped a clawed paw at Leonotis. He barely managed to duck, the razor-sharp claws tearing through the air where his head had been moments before. He danced back, keeping the length of the root between himself and the creature.
Meanwhile, Low was scrambling for more stones. The second rat had recovered and was now advancing on her, its teeth bared in a menacing snarl. It moved with a surprising speed for its size, its claws scrabbling on the uneven ground.
Leonotis saw Low was in danger. He feinted towards the first rat, drawing its attention, then spun and charged towards the second. He thrust the pointed end of the root towards the rat's chest. The creature, caught off guard by his sudden change in direction, didn't have time to react. The sharp tip of the root pierced its matted fur and sank into its flesh with a wet, tearing sound.
The rat let out a choked squeal, its powerful body convulsing. It thrashed wildly, its claws raking against the stone floor, before collapsing in a heap.
The first rat, seeing its companion fall, turned its full fury on Leonotis. It charged, a low growl rumbling in its chest. Leonotis stood his ground, his grip tightening on the root. He waited until the last possible moment, then dodged to the side as the rat lunged. He swung the root again, aiming for its exposed flank.
The impact was heavy, and the rat stumbled sideways, its breath coming in ragged gasps. Before it could recover, Low, now armed with another stone, hurled it with all her might. The stone struck the rat behind the ear, and this time, the creature's legs buckled. It let out a final, shuddering squeak and fell silent.
Leonotis and Low stood panting in the dim light, the stench of the dead rats filling the air. Leonotis's heart hammered in his chest, and his hands trembled slightly. He looked at the root in his hand, a strange mix of fear and exhilaration coursing through him. He had fought, and he had won.
Low, her face pale but resolute, nodded grimly at the fallen creatures. "Good. They won't bother us anymore. Let's keep moving." She glanced at Leonotis, a flicker of respect in her eyes. "That… that stick of yours is more useful than it looks."
"I was late getting to the auction," Low explained, her breath coming in ragged gasps. "I had to scout our escape route from the city through this sewer maze first."
As they were about to move on, a heavily built figure in dark leather armor appeared at the end of the tunnel, a drawn sword glinting in the dim light. One of the Director's bodyguards. A brief, desperate scuffle ensued. Leonotis, reacting instinctively, swung his root-sword in the same simple arc Gethii had shown him. But this time, as the stick connected with the bodyguard's arm, a network of thick, thorny roots erupted from the damp stone floor, ensnaring the man's legs and arms. He roared in surprise and struggled against the sudden, binding vegetation.
Low stared at Leonotis, her mouth agape. "How… how did you do that?"
Leonotis stared at the writhing roots, his own shock mirroring hers. "I… I don't know."
"We need to go!" Low yelled, grabbing his arm again. They fled down the tunnel, the bodyguard's frustrated shouts echoing behind them, until they stumbled out of a large sewer pipe and plunged into the cold, rushing water of a river.
Back in the sewer tunnel, the Director reached the edge of the pipe, her face contorted in fury as she watched Leonotis and Low being swept away by the current. "We can't let him get away," she snarled. "A Green mage… he's worth a fortune!"