The village smelled of ash and fear.
Adewunmi limped through the outskirts of Ile-Ifẹ, Ayodele's arm slung over her shoulder. The diviner's breath rattled like pebbles in a gourd, her skin slick with sweat. The coral bracelet on Adewunmi's wrist pulsed faintly, its glow dimmer now, as if drained by the forest's shadows. Behind them, the Whispering Forest loomed, its trees swaying like mourners at a funeral.
"Almost there," Adewunmi whispered, though she wasn't sure who she was reassuring.
The first villager to spot them was Tunde, the blacksmith's son. He dropped the yam basket he'd been hauling, his eyes widening. "Adewunmi! The elders said you were—"
"Dead?" Ayodele croaked, her voice raw. "Tell them death is too polite to claim us yet."
But Tunde was already sprinting toward the central compound, shouting. By the time they reached the village square, a crowd had gathered. Women clutched children to their hips. Men gripped machetes, their faces taut with suspicion. Adewunmi's mother stood at the front, her hands pressed to her mouth.
"Adewunmi!" Her mother lunged forward, but Baba Ifa, the eldest of the village council, barred her path with his staff.
"Stay back, Iyaoluwa," he warned. "That thing is no longer your daughter."
Adewunmi flinched. Thing. The word hung in the air like poison. She met her mother's gaze and saw the fracture there—love warring with terror.
"Let them through," Ayodele snapped, though her knees buckled as she spoke. "Unless you'd rather explain to Erinlẹ why his quarry died before he could skin her alive."
The crowd parted, muttering.
Her mother's hut felt smaller, the air thick with the scent of crushed mint and dread. Adewunmi slumped onto a woven mat while her mother boiled herbs, the clay pot clattering too loudly. Ayodele lay unconscious by the hearth, her chest rising in shallow hitches.
"You shouldn't have come back," her mother said, not turning from the fire.
Adewunmi traced the bracelet's ridges. "I had no choice."
"There's always a choice." Her mother's voice broke. "You could have run. Hidden. Let the gods feud among themselves."
"And let the village burn?"
"Better than you burning!" Her mother spun, tears streaking her cheeks. "Do you think I care about curses or prophecies? I care about you. My child. My only—"
A thunderclap split the sky.
The hut trembled. Palm fronds rained from the roof as the ground heaved. Adewunmi staggered outside, her mother's screams chasing her.
Dawn had broken, but the sun was wrong—a bleary orange eye smothered by smoke. The air reeked of scorched metal. Villagers cowered in doorways as the earth cracked, fissures spiderwebbing toward the sacred grove.
And there, at the epicenter of the chaos, stood Erinlẹ.
The Orisha of war and iron towered nine feet tall, his skin the color of forge-fired steel. Molten armor dripped down his torso, hissing as it struck the soil. Crops withered in his wake, cassava leaves curling to ash. In one hand, he gripped a spear whose tip burned white-hot; in the other, a chain of human teeth clattered.
"Adewunmi." His voice was a landslide, crushing the village into silence. "You defy me still."
She stepped forward, her bare feet blistering on the scorched earth. "I defy no one. I seek only to save my home."
Erinlẹ laughed, the sound like grinding bones. "Your home?" He swept his spear toward the villagers. "These ants who curse your name? These cowards who hid while your priestess bled?"
A child wailed. A man retched.
"They're afraid," Adewunmi said, her voice steady despite the tremor in her legs. "As am I."
"Fear is wisdom." Erinlẹ's molten gaze pinned her. "You, girl, are a fool. That power you cradle—it is stolen. A shard of Oshun's grace, yes, but tainted. The blood moon's touch has made it a rot in your veins."
He extended his spear, its heat blistering her face. "Surrender it. Or I will carve it from your corpse."
Adewunmi's mother screamed her name, but the sound was distant, drowned by the roar in her ears. The coral bracelet seared her wrist, Oshun's essence stirring like a caged beast.
No, she thought. Not a beast. A storm.
She let it rise.
Golden light erupted from her palms, crashing against Erinlẹ's spear in a shower of sparks. The impact hurled her backward, her spine slamming into a hut's wall. Thatch rained down as Erinlẹ staggered, his armor blackening where the light had struck.
"You dare—!" he bellowed.
The village erupted into chaos. Families fled, goats stampeding through flames. Adewunmi crawled to her knees, blood dripping from her nose. The bracelet's glow was frantic now, its coral veins pulsing like a panicked heart.
Erinlẹ raised his spear, the air rippling with heat. "You will burn—"
Lightning struck.
Not from the sky, but from a man—a god—who materialized in a crackle of ozone. Sango, Orisha of thunder, stood between them, his body coiled with muscle, his skin gleaming like polished onyx. A double-headed axe hung at his hip, its edges flickering with blue flame.
"Enough," Sango said, his voice a low rumble. "Must you two turn every squabble into a pyre?"
Erinlẹ snarled. "This squabble is divine law. She stole—"
"She survived," Sango interrupted. "A feat you seem determined to punish." He turned to Adewunmi, his gaze appraising. "You've spirit, girl. But spirit without sense is a funeral song."
Adewunmi wiped blood from her lip. "What would you have me do?"
Sango grinned, teeth flashing. "Prove him wrong." He jerked his chin at Erinlẹ. "This one claims you'll destroy the village. I say you'll save it. Let us wager."
Erinlẹ's molten eyes narrowed. "What terms?"
"A blood moon truce. She has until its next rise"—Sango glanced at the smothered sun—"thirty dawns. If she restores the amulet and quiets this squall, you forfeit your claim. If she fails…" He shrugged. "Feed her to your hounds."
Erinlẹ's spear cooled to dull iron. "And if she flees?"
"She won't." Sango's gaze locked on Adewunmi. "Will you?"
The unspoken truth hung between them: You have nowhere left to run.
Adewunmi straightened. "I accept."
Erinlẹ hissed, but Sango raised his axe, the blade singing. "The pact is struck. Now begone, both of you. You're scaring the chickens."
With a final glare, Erinlẹ dissolved into smoke. Sango lingered, his voice dropping to a murmur only Adewunmi could hear. "A word, little storm: when the time comes, you'll need more than light to win."
Then he was gone, leaving only the stench of charred earth and the villagers' stunned silence.
Her mother struck her at dusk.
The slap echoed through the hut, sharp as a whip crack. Adewunmi didn't flinch.
"You arrogant child," her mother spat. "You bargain with gods? You think this power makes you their equal?"
"No," Adewunmi said quietly. "It makes me their pawn."
Her mother's anger crumpled. She pulled Adewunmi into a crushing embrace, her tears hot against Adewunmi's neck. "You can't save us. No one can."
Outside, the village simmered. Some left offerings at their door—kola nuts, beads, a live chicken. Others hurled curses, their voices raw with fear.
"Witch!"
"Cursebringer!"
Adewunmi stared at the bracelet, its glow now a sickly yellow. "I have to try."
Her mother cupped her face. "Then let me help. Let me—"
A scream tore through the night.
They burst outside to find the village in uproar. A young girl, her cheeks streaked with tears, pointed north. "The diviner! She took a knife and—and—"
Adewunmi sprinted to Ayodele's pallet. It was empty, the hearth cold. Beside it, a bloodstained dagger lay abandoned, its edge etched with runes.
And clutched in Adewunmi's mother's shaking hand was a scrap of parchment, its message scrawled in ash:
"Gone to pay my debts. Don't follow."