In the heart of the highland village of Nyoka, hidden deep within the emerald folds of the African Rift Valley, flickering firelight danced along the clay walls of the underground chamber. The room hummed with chants—ancient, rhythmic, and low.
Elders in deep crimson robes moved in a slow circle around a stone table. On the table lay Ayo, a girl of seventeen, her eyes wide—not in fear, but in anticipation.
Behind her, a large iron bowl bubbled softly with a thick, dark liquid. The blood of the Mbulu beast—a creature revered, feared, and believed extinct beyond the borders of this valley.
Chief N'Karu, his face painted in white ochre and coal dust, stepped forward. In his gloved hands: a long, glass syringe, warm from the fire's glow and filled with the shimmering red fluid.
> "She is ready," whispered the priestess, her voice a breeze against the stone.
The ritual was not just science. It was belief—an experiment to awaken the dormant bond between human and beast, to create guardians who could speak with the wild and protect the valley from the encroaching poison of the outside world.
The syringe pierced Ayo's skin. Her body arched. Eyes rolled back. But she did not scream.
For a moment, nothing. Then a tremor in her legs. Her fingers twitched, then stiffened. Her back arched unnaturally as a low, animalistic gasp escaped her throat.
Her eyes rolled back. Her body convulsed — not violently, just enough to make her bones seem too loose, too detached. Her breath came in sharp bursts.
Then silence.
Her chest fell one last time. And did not rise again.
The assistant stepped back, pale.
> "She's… gone."
Dr. Mbele said nothing. He simply scribbled into his notebook, cold and precise.
> Subject 47: No compatibility. Cardiac arrest within 90 seconds. Blood rejection complete.
He looked at the others.
> "Prepare the next one."
The dim room smelled of damp clay and old blankets. A single bulb buzzed overhead, barely cutting through the shadows. In one corner, Nia, only seven, curled into herself, her small body trembling as she sobbed quietly into her knees.
Across the room, Zuri ,the same age, sat on the floor, legs stretched out, staring blankly at the wall. Her face was expressionless. Like she'd already left this place in her mind.
Nia's sniffles echoed.
Zuri blinked—once, slowly—then finally spoke, her voice dry and irritated:
> "Stop crying. It won't help."
Nia lifted her head, eyes red and puffy.
> "I wanna go home," she whispered. "I want my mama."
Zuri didn't look at her.
> "She's not coming."
Nia began crying harder, and zuri flinched, fists tightening.
> "They'll hear you," she snapped. "Be quiet!"
But her voice cracked.
A long silence followed. Then Zuri's eyes shifted, for the first time, to the narrow ventilation shaft in the corner of the room. It was barely big enough for a small child to crawl through—and the grate was loose.
She stood up slowly.
> "Come on," she said.
Nia looked up, confused.
> "W-What?"
> "We're leaving."
Zuri pried the grate open, metal scraping faintly. She crawled in first, her small hands guiding her through the dusty, narrow space. Nia hesitated—then followed, sobbing quietly.
The vent twisted and turned, but Zuri kept moving. She had memorized the sounds. Knew when the guards changed shifts. Knew when the hallway went quiet.
They dropped into a storage room filled with crates and old tools.
Footsteps echoed above.
Zuri grabbed Nia's hand. "Run."
They bolted.
Through a cracked door. Down a hallway with peeling walls. Past an open room where the jackal's blood still steamed in glass beakers. Past the table where Imani's body still lay, covered with a thin sheet.
Nia whimpered but didn't stop.
The exit was near. A broken fence. Tall grass beyond it.
A shout rang out behind them. Flashlights flicked on.
Zuri didn't look back.
> "Faster!" she yelled.
They ducked under the fence, tearing their clothes. The forest swallowed them in seconds.
And then — silence.
Only the wind. Only the dark.
They didn't stop running until their legs gave out.
They were free — for now.