The gods do not speak with mercy. They speak with truth, fire, and bone. They demand not just understanding, but acceptance of painful realities.
Night fell like a velvet blade across the land. It was thick, black, and too quiet. The moon hung low—red and full, a blood eye watching from above, casting an ominous glow on the silent village of Ugbeñe. Not even the crickets dared to sing, as if the very air itself was holding its breath, awaiting an ancient reckoning.
Alaric stood in the center of the grove of whispers, a sacred place where no man, not even the oldest seer, dared speak lies. Amarachi had brought him here before, but this time, he came on his own, drawn by an invisible pull, a painful understanding.
He wore only linen pants, his chest bare, marked with symbols Amarachi had drawn in white clay, now glowing faintly in the gloom. He was ready to face whatever truth the ancestors held.
Now, the wind stirred the leaves, a soft, chilling breath, and the grove began to breathe around him, a living entity awakening. A whisper rose—low, ancient, not heard with ears but felt deep within the marrow of his bones.
Then they came.
The Ancestors.
Not as fleeting ghosts.
Not as vague visions.
But as shadows of light, each taking the form of something remembered by the very blood that flowed through his veins, by the history of this land.
An old woman with skin the color of smoke, her eyes ancient and wise.
A fierce warrior with fire in his eyes and a leopard's jawbone clutched in his hand, a symbol of primal strength.
A solemn priestess cloaked in crimson leaves, her presence radiating power.
And then—one who bore Alaric's own face. But darker. Wilder. His eyes glowing like embers submerged under water, a chilling reflection of his own forgotten past.
"Who are you?" the warrior boomed, his voice resonating through the grove, shaking the very leaves on the trees.
"I am Alaric Mercier," he replied, his voice steady despite the tremor in his hands.
"Lies," said the priestess, her voice sharp, cutting through the darkness. "That is your name. Not your truth. Not the truth of who you truly are, who you once were."
The shadows of the ancestors circled him, their forms shifting, their presence overwhelming. The leaves above rustled in rhythmic patterns, like drums whispering ancient riddles, demanding answers.
"What do you seek?" asked the old woman, her smoky eyes piercing his soul.
Alaric's throat tightened, the words catching. "To protect this land. To protect her." The conviction in his voice was absolute, heartfelt.
"Why?" asked the leopard warrior, his voice a low growl. "She is not yours. Her soul is bound to fire, to a destiny that demands sacrifice."
"So is mine," Alaric whispered, a painful admission of his own intertwined fate.
The grove hissed, the very air seeming to recoil. The spirits leaned closer, their ghostly forms pressing in on him.
"You love her," said the one with his own face, his voice a chilling echo of Alaric's own.
"Yes," Alaric admitted, the single word a profound declaration, carrying the weight of centuries of longing.
"Then you must suffer," the ancestor with his face decreed, his voice resonating with an ancient, unforgiving judgment.
Suddenly, a circle of fire erupted around him, sigils flaring beneath the dirt like buried snakes awakening. Heat seared his skin, not burning his flesh, but tearing open his very memory, flooding his mind with images of a past he had forgotten.
He saw—
—Obianuju (Amarachi), as she once was, held in his arms, her lifeblood staining his hands in a grove eerily similar to this one. The pain was sharp, immediate.
—His own hands trembling, useless, as he failed to stop the inevitable blade, the memory a searing indictment.
—The gods, cold and silent, watching without intervention as her light, her very essence, was cruelly extinguished.
He screamed, a raw, guttural sound torn from the deepest part of his being. He fell to his knees, clutching his head, overwhelmed by the crushing weight of his past failure.
"This is your shame," said the priestess, her voice echoing the collective judgment. "This is your burden. A debt to be paid."
"I couldn't save her," he gasped, tears cutting through the ash and dirt on his face, the agony of that moment fresh and real.
"Can you now?" the voices thundered, their combined power shaking the ground.
Alaric looked up, his eyes blazing with a fierce, renewed determination. "Yes," he rasped, his voice raw but unwavering.
"Then prove it," they thundered, their voices crashing over him like a tidal wave.
Suddenly, the shadowy forms of the ancestors vanished. In their place stood Amarachi, or a horrifyingly real vision of her, bound by golden sigils, her body encircled by rising flames. Her mouth was open in a silent cry, a scream that only he could hear in the depths of his soul.
A figure cloaked in black stepped from the smoke, a curved blade glinting ominously in its hand, advancing towards her. Alaric lunged forward, his body screaming for action—but found his legs frozen, rooted to the spot. His body would not move, held captive by an unseen force.
"Save her!" the grove roared, the voices of the ancestors mingling with the wind, a desperate plea.
"I can't!" he cried out, his voice a broken sob, the helplessness a torment.
"Then you do not love her enough," their voices condemned, piercing him with a pain that struck deep—his bones cracking, his heart screaming, a deluge of agonizing visions flooding his senses. This was the ultimate challenge, a test of his worthiness.
And then…
The searing fire around him receded. The terrifying vision dissolved, leaving only the cool night air. And the ancestors returned, their forms once again shifting shadows of light.
The old woman stepped forward, her smoky form radiating a profound, ancient energy, and placed a burning hand on his head.
"You will suffer for her," she said, her voice soft but absolute. "And still she may not choose you. That is the price of this love, this fate."
"I know," he said, barely breathing, his voice thick with acceptance, a painful truth he now understood.
"But now… you are marked."
With a sudden, powerful gust of wind, they vanished, leaving Alaric alone in the quiet grove, forever changed.
Elsewhere, in her hut, Amarachi woke suddenly from her trance, her body trembling. She had gone to the sacred pool to seek answers—answers about Alaric, about the overwhelming burden of the Codex, about the constant ache in her chest that pulsed each time he touched her soul, each time their spirits intertwined.
The waters had turned dark, mirroring the shadows of her internal conflict. Then they turned red, a chilling premonition of blood and sacrifice. And then—her own reflection shifted.
It wasn't her face looking back. It was Obianuju again, her past self, her eyes weeping silently, her lips parting as if to speak.
"You will have to choose," the vision said, her voice filled with a profound sorrow. "Between the flame that burns—the destructive fire of a love that defies fate—and the fire that saves—the sacrifice demanded by your sacred duty."
Amarachi gasped, a ragged sound, falling backward onto the rough stones of the hut, clutching her chest. The wind outside whispered the same word, over and over, a relentless drumbeat in her mind:
Choose. Choose. Choose.