The night above the capital pulsed with laughter and drumfire. The feasting halls of the palace spilled music into the streets—bards singing the praises of the champions, nobles raising goblets of palm wine, the scent of roasted goat thick in the air.
But in the narrow arteries beneath that celebration, two figures moved unseen.
Grom Stonehand and Lia of the Greenwater kept to the dark.
Low's heavy boots made the stone creak. Her false beard was tucked under her chin now, the coarse hair itching her jaw. "They'll be pouring drinks till sunrise," she muttered. "We could've joined them, you know. For once, a night without fighting or sneaking."
Leonotis kept his eyes forward. "We can't risk it. Every face up there knows the champions by name now. Too many eyes. Too many chances to slip up."
Low grunted. "So instead, we crawl through rat tunnels."
"Rat tunnels don't gossip," Leonotis said quietly.
The narrow passage bent downward, leading into a half-flooded corridor that smelled of old wine and mildew. Pipes ran overhead, dripping from the condensation of the kitchens above. The faint echoes of merriment filtered through the cracks in the stone ceiling, a ghost of the world they'd left behind.
They passed under an archway into what had once been a servant's corridor, now forgotten by all but vermin and ghosts. There, the laughter of nobles faded completely, replaced by voices.
"…the Living Weapon," a man whispered ahead, his words carrying through the echoing dark. "They say it's the daughter of Ogun himself. That it can break even an Aláàṣẹ's blessing."
Leonotis pressed himself against the wall. Low followed his cue, crouching low behind a collapsed wine barrel.
"Do you think it's true?" another voice—a woman's, breathy, frightened.
The man hissed. "You didn't hear it from me, but one of the priests told me it's being prepared right now. A prize fit for the King himself."
"Living Weapon," the woman repeated. "What kind of prize is that?"
Their footsteps faded, leaving only the dripping water and Leonotis's hammering pulse.
Low looked at him. "A 'Living Weapon.' Was Gethii's sword alive?"
"I don't know," Leonotis murmured. "but I do know that we'll have to win that sword or steal it."
They moved deeper, following the direction the whispers had come from. The passage widened, opening into a dimly lit junction where torchlight flickered against the walls. The air was thick with incense and something else—a coppery tang like burnt blood.
And from the far end of the hall, two figures stepped out of the shadows.
"About time," Jacqueline whispered. Her cloak was dusted with grime, her hair tucked beneath a hood. Beside her stood Zombiel.
Leonotis let out a quiet breath. "You found something?"
Jacqueline nodded, motioning them to follow. "In the restricted archives of the library. Books sealed under wax and chain. I think I know what this 'Silas' is."
They slipped into a small alcove lit by a single oil lamp. The light trembled over parchment scrolls and half-burned candles. Jacqueline placed an old tome on the table, its pages cracked with age.
"Look," she said, flipping to a page illustrated with figures drawn in ink. "Men made hollow by dark àṣẹ. Their bodies altered until they couldn't hold it anymore. They were fed power beyond their nature. The Orisha themselves banned the practice."
Low frowned, squinting at the image. "That's sounds more like poisoning."
"Exactly," Jacqueline said. "The records call them The Iku Experiments. An attempt to create vessels that could channel more àṣẹ than a human should. The result—madness, corruption, decay."
Zombiel's voice was a low rumble. "Their souls burned out."
Leonotis's stomach turned. "You think Silas—"
Jacqueline nodded. "His eyes… did you see them?"
Leonotis did. He couldn't stop thinking about them. That violet pulse, steady and rhythmic—unnatural. Familiar.
"It's the same," he said finally. "The same rhythm as the mushrooms. The ones that infected the fields with the Siyawesi in the marsh village."
Low's brow furrowed. "You're sure?"
"Positive. It wasn't just color—it was pulse. A beat. Like the mushrooms had a breath of their own."
Jacqueline closed the book softly. "Which means the corruption didn't die with those mushrooms. Someone preserved it."
For a moment, the silence was heavy. Only the lamp hissed faintly.
Leonotis rose and crossed his arms. "Look, I get that this is important. But right now, we need to focus on finding Gethii and Chinakah. We heard one of the undead say Gethii's name. They must have been taken deeper into the dungeons."
Jacqueline's eyes met his. "And what if this corruption connected to more than we think."
Leonotis stiffened. "What do you mean?"
"What if this isn't just a tournament," she said. "What if he's collecting power sources. Silas, living weapons, the corrupted àṣẹ—it's all part of something. I think Gethii and Chinakah were taken because of their àṣẹ, how strong they are. Silas might just be the start."
Low shifted uncomfortably. "We can't fight a theory. We don't even know where they're being held."
Jacqueline looked between them both. "Then we'll find out. But Leonotis…"—her voice softened—"…if Silas really is tied to this darkness, and you've seen that corruption before, can you really just walk away from it? Leonotis you saw the fields you know what those mushrooms can do. I'm starting to think these mushrooms might be a blight effecting more than just that one village."
Leonotis turned his gaze aside, jaw tight. The words landed like a stone in his stomach. Leonotis could tell that Jacqueline was trying to hint at something. What was it?
He thought of the mushrooms, the fox that was transformed, the spider from Anansi's Forest, and finally the village being starved from the mushrooms. He thought of Silas's eyes glowing that same cursed light.
And yet…
"I just need to save them," he said finally. "Gethii and Chinakah. They're my people. The closest thing I have to family. If we get them out, then maybe we can stop whatever this is together."
Jacqueline studied him for a long moment. Then she nodded slowly. "You're not wrong. Heroes can have priorities too."
Leonotis almost smiled. "So you'll help?"
"I always was," she said. "Even when you weren't asking."
Zombiel stretched with a groan.
Jacqueline gathered her books, tucking them beneath her arm. "It's getting late. You two should probably sleep in the tournament barracks tonight to keep from being suspicious. We'll keep searching the archives. If I find anything about the dungeon structure, I'll send word."
Low nodded. "Be careful. The guards are getting twitchier by the hour."
As the two of them vanished into a side passage, Leonotis and Low stood in the fading lamplight. The silence between them was filled only by the hum of the city above.
Low finally said, "You sure about this? Putting Gethii and Chinakah first?"
Leonotis didn't answer right away. He stared at the flickering flame, his reflection warped in the oil. "I don't know if I'm sure of anything anymore. Every step we take, something new unravels."
Low scratched her beard, sighing. "But she's right—you've got that hero streak in you, even if you try to hide it."
He shot her a sideways glance. "Hero? I nearly killed Gregor."
Low's tone softened. "And I've killed worse. Sometimes it's not about being clean, it's about being right."
The words lingered.
They doused the lamp and slipped back into the tunnels. The air grew colder as they climbed the final stairway leading toward the tournament barracks. The laughter from the feast above was still loud—distant, muffled by stone—but it made Leonotis' chest ache.
He wanted to be up there. To laugh with them, drink with them, forget all this madness for one night.
But he couldn't.
Not until Gethii and Chinakah were free.
Not until he understood what Silas really was.
As they emerged into the moonlit streets behind the barracks, Leonotis paused, glancing up at the palace towers gleaming in the distance.
Low nudged his shoulder. "Come on. We'll need sleep. There's more fighting tomorrow."
Leonotis nodded absently. "Yeah. Sleep."
The moon had risen, a sliver of polished bone in the indigo sky, by the time Leonotis and Low trudged back toward the barracks. The echoing cheers from the arena had faded, replaced by the low hum of the capital at night and the weary ache in their muscles. They were almost to the solace of their stone-walled room when a voice, deep and calm as the earth, stopped them.
"Grom. Lia."
Adebayo stood at the entrance to the fighters' training yard, a single torch burning on a post beside him, casting his shadow long and proud. The other surviving champions—Zola, a few of the stoic Zulu warriors, and a handful more—were gathered around a small, crackling fire. The air smelled of woodsmoke and cooling sand.
"We are not done for the night," Adebayo said. It was not a command, but an invitation that felt just as binding. "We honor those who have fallen and the ancestors who watched over us. Join us."
Low grunted, her hand resting on the pommel of her axe. "We're tired."
"The dead are more tired still," Adebayo replied gently. "Their spirits deserve a farewell."
He turned and walked back to the fire without waiting for an answer. Leonotis felt a pull, a need for something other than the guilt still gnawing at him from his match with Gregor. He nudged Low. "We should stay. Just for a moment."
Low sighed, the sound a low rumble in her disguised voice, but she followed him into the yard.
Leonotis kept to the edge of the firelight, letting the shadows cling to him like a second cloak. He watched as Adebayo stood before the flames, his towering form silencing the quiet chatter. The young Laamb champion closed his eyes, and when he spoke, his voice was not the shout of a warrior, but the resonant hum of a griot.
He began to chant in his native Wolof, a song of dust and bone. The words were a river of sound, telling stories of ancient heroes, of gods who walked the earth, and of the sacred duty of a warrior to honor the life they take. Each name of a fallen competitor from the day's Culling was spoken, not with sorrow, but with a profound respect that echoed through the quiet yard.
For the first time since his brutal victory, the knot in Leonotis's chest loosened. This was not the blood sport King Rega celebrated; this was the sacred heart of the tournament. It was a proving of spirit, a dance with mortality where every soul mattered. The àṣẹ in the air felt clean again, purified by the reverence in Adebayo's voice.
He didn't notice her at first.
Amara stood on the opposite side of the fire, her black staff held loosely in one hand. She wasn't watching Adebayo. She was watching him. Her gaze was unnervingly direct, analytical, cutting through his disguise of "Lia" as if it were smoke.
To Amara, the girl's movements were wrong. The slight frame, the bound chest—it was all a convincing performance. But the way she'd fought Gregor… that wasn't the practiced skill of a trained warrior. It was the desperate, raw fury of a cornered animal. And beneath it, Amara had felt a flicker of something she recognized—a deep, unruly àṣẹ, wild and untamed as a primeval forest. It was the energy she'd been searching for.
She had to be sure.
As Adebayo's chant reached a quiet close, Amara took a step, her path clear toward the silent figure lingering in the shadows.
And then a wall of muscle and cheap leather blocked her way.
"Good song, eh?" Low as Grom the dwarf grunted, bumping into her with a clumsiness that was entirely deliberate. "Makes you want to hit something, then pray for it after."
Amara blinked, her focus broken. She looked at the dwarf. "Excuse me."
"No need," Low said, stepping with her as she tried to move past. "I was just thinking, a powerful priestess like you… where'd you learn to summon things like that? Your folks teach you?"
Amara's polite smile tightened. This oaf was a distraction. "My training is a private matter."
"Right, right. Temple secrets," Low rumbled, scratching her beard. "Still, takes a lot of guts to stand there while monsters do your fighting. You ever get your own hands dirty?"
Her questions were blunt, almost insulting. Amara's patience, already thin, began to fray. Her gaze flickered past the dwarf's shoulder to where Leonotis was still standing, head bowed, lost in thought. She was so close. This lumbering fool was ruining her chance.
"I fight as my Orisha wills it," she said, her tone clipped and cool. "Now if you'll excuse me, it has been a long day."
Without waiting for a reply, she turned on her heel and walked away from the fire, heading toward the women's barracks. The annoyance radiated from her in waves. Her opportunity was lost.
Low watched her go, her expression thoughtful under the ridiculous beard. She hadn't missed the way Amara's eyes had been locked on Leonotis. It wasn't the simple curiosity she'd seen from Zola, or Adebayo's friendly respect. It was something else. Sharper. More focused. As if she wasn't looking at a person, but a puzzle she was determined to solve.
Young love, I guess, Low surmised, though the thought didn't sit right. Amara didn't seem the type.
She shrugged, the mystery filed away for later, and turned back to the firelight, leaving Leonotis alone with his ghosts a little longer.