The fire had dwindled to a bed of glowing embers, painting the training yard in soft strokes of orange and deep shadow. Adebayo's ancestral chant still lingered in the cool desert air, a fading echo of purpose that had, for a moment, washed the blood from the sand. Most of the other fighters had drifted away, their boisterous energy returning as they sought out their beds, leaving only the whisper of the wind and the crackle of dying wood.
Leonotis remained. He stood at the edge of the yard, letting the darkness swallow him, his gaze fixed on the pulsing heart of the fire. The sacredness of the ceremony had settled his roaring guilt, but it left behind a profound weariness that sank into his bones. He felt hollowed out, a vessel filled with secrets and a power that felt more like a curse with every passing hour.
"You're a quiet one, aren't you?"
The voice was bright and clear, cutting through the gloom like a struck chord. Leonotis flinched, turning to see Zola emerge from the archway leading to the barracks. She wasn't walking so much as flowing, her movements carrying the same effortless grace she'd shown in the arena. The faint light caught the intricate braids in her hair and the easy smile on her face.
"Sorry," she said, her smile widening. "Didn't mean to startle you. I just saw you were still out here."
Leonotis pulled the persona of "Lia" around himself like a shield. He dipped his head, keeping his voice soft and a pitch higher. "Just thinking."
"About your fight?" Zola stepped closer, her own energy a stark contrast to his exhaustion. It was like sunlight—warm, vibrant, and utterly without deceit. "It was incredible. The way you moved at the end… it was like watching a storm break. I've never seen anyone fight with that much fury."
He flinched internally at the word 'fury'. It was too close to the truth. "It was… luck," he managed, the lie tasting like ash in his mouth.
Zola laughed, a melodic sound that seemed to make the embers glow a little brighter. "No one wins a fight like that on luck alone. I saw your face." She paused, tilting her head. "But I wanted to say thank you."
Leonotis looked up, confused. "For what?"
"For cheering," she said simply. "During my match with Ukenge. I heard you. Just a shout, but… it helps, you know? To know someone's watching. That they see the art in it, not just the violence."
He was stunned into silence. He hadn't realized his own brief shout of awe had been audible, let alone noticed by her. For a moment, the wall between Leonotis and Lia thinned. "It was easy to cheer," he said, his voice dropping slightly, becoming more his own. "You don't fight. You dance."
The compliment was so earnest it made Zola's smile soften into something genuine and warm. "That's what Engolo is. The dance of spirit and body. My grandmother taught me. She said every movement is a word in a prayer. If your prayer is honest, the Orisha listen."
Her words resonated deep within him, touching the very core of his own connection to the world. He understood. He felt the earth listen, felt the roots answer. "She was right," he whispered, forgetting himself.
The honesty in his voice created a sudden, easy bridge between them. The space felt less like a training yard and more like a quiet corner of the world shared between two people who understood the language of àṣẹ. The age difference between them felt non-existent; they were just two young fighters, weary from the day, finding a moment of connection.
"You get it," Zola said, her eyes lighting up with recognition. "That àṣẹ inside you… it feels quiet, but it's deep. Like a river that runs underground." She took another step closer, her expression open and curious. "I'd love to see how you train sometime. Maybe we could learn from each other."
Caught in the warmth of the moment, Leonotis almost smiled. The idea of sharing his true self, of training with someone who saw power as a dance, was a deeply tempting fantasy.
Then, Zola reached out, her hand extended in a simple gesture of camaraderie. "Your arm," she said. "The way you blocked his axe… you must be bruised."
Her fingers were inches from his forearm.
Panic, cold and absolute, seized him.
The àṣẹ in his veins, calm moments before, surged in a wild, protective reflex. He felt the sickening, alien crawl of vines twisting beneath his skin, the phantom thorns bristling in response to the perceived threat of touch, of exposure.
He snatched his arm back as if her hand were a hot iron. The movement was sharp, violent, shattering the quiet intimacy of the moment. He stumbled back a step, his breath catching in his throat.
Zola froze, her hand hovering in the empty air. Confusion, then hurt, flickered across her face. "Lia?"
"Don't!" The word escaped him, rougher and deeper than Lia's voice should be.
He saw her flinch. Guilt crashed over him, as sharp as the panic. He tried to recover, forcing the persona back into place, but the cracks were showing.
"I'm… fine," he stammered, his voice trembling so badly the lie was pathetic. He wrapped his arms around himself, trying to physically hold the unruly power in. "I just… I don't like being touched."
The excuse sounded weak even to his own ears. Zola's expression was a mixture of concern and bewilderment. The easy, honest youth who had been standing there a moment ago was gone, replaced by a skittish, frightened stranger.
"I'm sorry," she said softly, lowering her hand. "I didn't mean to…"
"It's not you," he cut in, desperate to end the conversation before he revealed anything else. "I have to go. I need… to rest."
He didn't wait for her to reply. He turned and practically fled, his footsteps echoing too loudly as he disappeared into the darkness of the corridor, leaving Zola alone by the dying fire. She stood there for a long moment, watching the empty space where he had been, her brow furrowed in thought. The quiet girl from Greenwater was more than just quiet. She was haunted. And for a flicker of a second, as he'd pulled away, Zola could have sworn she saw something move beneath his skin. Something dark, and tangled, and very much alive.
The corridors of the tournament barracks were quiet, the torchlight casting long, dancing shadows on the sandstone walls. Most of the other fighters were already asleep, their exhaustion from the day's battles pulling them deep into dreamless rest. Amara walked the silent hall, her black staff tapping a soft, steady rhythm against the stone floor. The gentle, almost serene mask she wore for the world remained perfectly in place, but beneath it, her mind was a whirlwind of calculation and simmering frustration.
The dwarf, Grom, had been an infuriating obstacle. Clumsy, boorish, and far too perceptive for his own good. He had cost her an opportunity. The brief, charged encounter with Zola had only confirmed her suspicions about the girl from Greenwater. Lia's reaction—the visceral panic, the flicker of a power far too wild for a simple fighter—was another piece of the puzzle. It was the frantic energy of a caged storm, the very signature she had been sent to find.
She reached her room, a simple cell with little more than a cot and a water basin. Pushing the heavy wooden door open, she slipped inside, letting it close with a soft click that seemed to sever her from the rest of the world.
The moment the lock settled, the persona of Amara fell away.
Her shoulders, once held with a priestess's humble grace, squared with the sharp posture of a trained operative. The soft, curious look in her eyes hardened into a gaze of analytical focus. This was not Amara, the vessel of Obtala's Reach. This was Imani, the Aseweaver, an agent of an order far older than King Rega's entire kingdom.
She was not alone.
A figure detached itself from the deepest shadows of the room, a woman clad in the same severe black robes as Imani's own ceremonial garb, though hers were unadorned with any beads or sigils. Her face was a mask of placid authority, her presence so controlled it barely seemed to stir the air.
"You were delayed," the woman said, her voice a low, even whisper.
Imani unslung the staff from her shoulder, leaning it against the wall. "Complications. A dwarf with a thick skull and too many questions." She met the woman's gaze without flinching. "But the day was not without progress."
The woman stepped forward, the torchlight catching the silver threads in her braided hair. "The primary objective. Report."
"I believe I have found him," Imani stated, her voice crisp and devoid of the melodic softness she used as Amara. "The girl, Lia of Greenwater. The disguise is effective, but the power beneath it is unmistakable. It is raw, chaotic. Green àṣẹ, just as the elders predicted." She recounted Lia's fight with Gregor, describing the untamed fury that was less a style and more a desperate surge of survival. "And tonight, the Engolo girl, Zola, tried to touch her. The reaction was… violent. She recoiled as if burned. I felt the àṣẹ spike—it was instinctual, protective, and utterly uncontrolled."
The woman absorbed the information with a slow, deliberate nod. "The wild seed has taken root. Good. Proximity is key for the next phase."
Imani crossed her arms, the movement sharp and deliberate. Her expression shifted from that of a subordinate to one of a peer demanding answers. "Then perhaps you can explain the other anomaly. The one I was not briefed on. Silas."
The woman's placid expression did not change, but a flicker of annoyance passed through her eyes. "He is not your concern."
"He defeated a champion by shattering his bones with a thought and left a trail of corrupted àṣẹ that even Jabara could feel," Imani countered, her voice dangerously quiet. "He fights with the precision of a construct and carries the scent of the fungi. He is very much my concern. Why was I not told another variable of this magnitude was in play?"
The woman sighed, a sound as dry as rustling leaves. "Because his presence here is not part of our design. There are other sects within the order, Imani. More… reckless factions. They have been pursuing their own theories on vessel creation." She waved a dismissive hand. "Silas is one of their failed experiments. A hollow man filled with stolen, decaying power. He has a purpose, but it is a short and brutish one. He will burn himself out. He does not matter to the grand tapestry."
Imani's jaw tightened. A failed experiment that could rewrite the rules of àṣẹ manipulation felt far from irrelevant, but she understood the implicit command: ignore him. Focus on the mission.
"He is a complication that could have been avoided with proper intelligence," she said stiffly.
"Do not question the flow of the weave, Imani," the woman chided gently, using her true name like a key turning in a lock, reminding her of her place. "Your thread is vital. Do not let it become tangled in knots that are not your own to unravel."
Imani gave a stiff nod, accepting the rebuke. Her gaze drifted to the single narrow window, through which the distant lights of the royal palace glittered. "And Njiru? Is he still in the cards?"
"For now," the woman confirmed. "The King's ear is a valuable place to have a whisper. Your influence over him has been… adequate. Speak your concerns about corruption to him and he'll parrot those to the King, which keeps Rega focused on Silas and blind to us. It'll be a useful misdirection."
"It takes a considerable amount of energy to maintain the weave around a man so close to the throne," Imani stated. It wasn't a complaint, but a statement of fact. A reminder of the resources she was expending.
The woman's lips curved into a smile that held no warmth. "I am aware. And the energy you are putting into our dear Njiru had better be worth the cost." She moved closer, her shadow falling over Imani, her voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper that was colder than the stone walls around them. "Because when the time comes, we will need more than just a whisper in the King's ear. We will need the perfect vessel. And the Green Aseborn… he is the loom on which we will weave the future."
The words hung in the air, chilling and absolute. They weren't here to guide Leonotis. They weren't here to save him. They were here to harvest him. And every move Imani made, every life she touched in this tournament, was just another thread being pulled taut in a pattern he could not yet see, leading him toward a fate he would never choose.
The woman raised her hand and she dissapeared into a puff of black smoke.
Imani stood in silence contemplating the next actions she would take when a sharp knock cracked through the quiet room.
Imani's eyes widened. In a breath, her form shimmered—skin smoothing, posture straightening, aura tightening—until Amara stood where she had been. The illusion settled just as the knock came again, firmer this time.
Amara opened the door.
One of King Rega's bodyguards filled the doorway, towering in her wooden mask and dark armor. Amara tried to decipher which one it was—Kenya, the aggressive one, or Zuri, the softer presence—but the woman's posture was rigid, stance coiled, every inch radiating authority.
It didn't matter. Whoever she was, she wasn't here for pleasantries.
"...Yes?" Amara asked, voice steady.
The bodyguard tilted her head. "I sensed a familiar àṣẹ."
"Familiar?" Amara repeated, keeping her expression calm.
The guard stepped closer, enough that the carved mask nearly brushed Amara's nose. Her breath was warm, slow, deliberate intimidation.
"Yes," she said. "The àṣẹ of someone who was eavesdropping in the throne room… not too long ago."
A slow thrum of tension rippled under Amara's skin, but she kept her heartbeat—and her smile—under control.
"Well," she said lightly, "do you still sense them?"
The bodyguard leaned in even further, voice dropping to a warning whisper.
"No. But wherever they are… they won't get far. We will find them soon."
Amara nodded with concern so perfect it could have been real.
"Well, I hope you do. If there's anything I can do to help, I'm here."
The guard lingered, the carved mask unreadable. A test. A challenge.
Then she turned sharply and strode out, closing the door hard behind her.
Silence settled again.
Amara let out a soft, secret smile.
"They're starting to suspect," she murmured to herself. "I must tread carefully."