The night after the failed strike was thick with silence, the kind that presses on the chest and makes every breath feel heavier than it should. The moon hung pale and hollow above the village, casting thin light on roofs of thatch and clay, but it brought no comfort. Inside the huts, whispers replaced laughter, and fear stretched its roots into every corner.
Adewale's voice had carried louder than any other since the attack. He stood in the center of the square that evening, flanked by the surviving men who had dared the oath-bearers. Their wounds had been wrapped in leaves and herbs, but the marks—long scratches, bruises the size of fists—were enough proof for all.
"They are not our children anymore," Adewale declared, his voice deep and ragged with anger. "You saw what they did. A man's bones broken as if they were twigs. Eyes glowing like fire, words spoken in voices that were not theirs. Do you want to wait until they kill us all in our sleep?"
The crowd stirred. Mothers clutched their children closer, as if the three youths might burst from the shadows at any moment. Fathers muttered, fists clenched around wooden spears. Fear was a river, and Adewale knew how to steer its current.
"They must be stopped," he pressed on. "Not tomorrow, not when it is too late. Now."
Elder Ojo rose slowly from his seat at the edge of the gathering, leaning on his staff. His eyes, dimmed with years but still sharp, swept across the villagers. "Fear clouds your hearts," he said, his tone heavy with sadness. "I warned you before—the oath is not so simple. To strike at them blindly is to strike at yourselves. Blood will call for blood. If you push, the curse will push back harder."
But his words were thin against the storm rising in the people's hearts. The whispers of the villagers grew louder than his warning, drowning him in a tide of suspicion and dread. Adewale did not argue further—he did not need to. The seed of hatred had already been planted, and it was growing fast.
---
Meanwhile, in the ruined shrine at the edge of the forest, the oath-bearers sat in a circle lit by a dim lantern. The air reeked of burnt palm oil and dried blood, remnants of the ritual that had bound them. None of them spoke at first. The silence between them was heavier than the silence outside.
It was Ife who broke it, her voice cracking like a clay pot dropped on stone. "They look at us like monsters. Did you see their eyes? Even the children… they fear us." She buried her face in her hands, shoulders shaking. "Maybe they are right. Maybe we are monsters."
Sola reached for her arm, but she pulled away. His chest tightened. "We are not monsters, Ife," he said firmly, though the words tasted like lies on his tongue. "We are cursed, yes. But cursed is not the same as evil. We can still choose who we are."
Kunle laughed bitterly, leaning back against the shrine wall. The shadows caught his face strangely, making his eyes glimmer with an unnatural gleam. "Choose? You still believe we have a choice, Sola? When they came at us, the oath moved my hand before I even thought. I felt its strength, its hunger. And you know what? It felt… right."
Sola's head snapped toward him. "Right? You nearly killed a man, Kunle!"
Kunle leaned forward, his smile sharp. "He was trying to kill us. Tell me, brother, what would you have done? Offered your neck like a goat at the altar?"
Ife's sobs grew louder. She covered her ears as if she could shut them both out, but the whispers of the oath slipped past even her defenses. They pressed into her mind, soft yet relentless: Blood binds. Blood feeds. Blood will answer.
Sola clenched his fists. He could feel it too—the murmur at the back of his skull, the tug in his veins whenever anger stirred. It was growing harder to resist.
"We can't let it rule us," he said, his voice low but firm. "If we do, then they win. We'll become exactly what they fear."
But even as he spoke, he wondered if his own resolve was strong enough to stand against what was coming.
---
The days that followed turned the village into a place of uneasy preparation. Spears were sharpened, charms tied to doorways, drums beaten in hidden rituals meant to ward off the curse. Children were forbidden to play near the forest. Women whispered prayers into their cooking pots, hoping to protect their households.
Adewale moved from hut to hut like fire spreading through dry grass, his words igniting fear into resolve. Men who had once pitied the oath-bearers now spoke of them as demons. Even those who hesitated kept their doubts silent, for no one wanted to stand against the rising tide.
Then, one evening, a cry tore through the village. A mother stumbled into the square, wailing. Her child had gone missing. The boy, no more than eight, had wandered toward the edge of the forest to chase fireflies—and had not returned.
Suspicion flared instantly, cruel and sharp. Voices rose in accusation: The oath-bearers! They have taken him. They thirst for blood.
Elder Ojo tried to calm them, but his voice was drowned by the roar of fear. Torches were lit, and men gathered in a hunting party, their anger like a flame in the dark. Adewale stood at their head, eyes blazing.
"They have crossed the last line," he declared. "If we wait another night, it will be all our children. We end this now."
---
At the shrine, the oath-bearers heard the drums before they saw the torches. The sound rolled through the trees, deep and insistent, like the heartbeat of something ancient.
Ife trembled, her face pale. "They're coming. Oh gods, they're coming for us."
Sola rose to his feet, heart hammering. He grabbed the small dagger he had kept hidden since the ritual, though he knew it would do little. "We can still talk to them," he said, though doubt laced every word.
Kunle stood with a slow smile, his eyes glowing faintly in the dark. "Let them come," he murmured. "The oath is with us. Tonight, they'll learn who the true hunters are."
The whispers surged in all their minds at once, stronger than ever, like a chorus rising from the earth itself. Blood calls. Blood answers. The storm is here.
The drums grew louder. The torches drew closer. The night trembled on the edge of violence,
and all knew there was no turning back.
The storm had gathered.