The jungle breathed lies.
Adewunmi crouched in the canopy, her ichor gauntlet gripping a branch slick with morning dew. Below, the golden woman—her face, her voice—stood in a sunlit clearing, beckoning to a group of villagers with hands outstretched. Their eyes glazed, they followed as if entranced, bare feet shuffling over roots and stone.
"Come," the doppelgänger crooned, its voice honeyed and hollow. "The storm cannot touch you in my light."
Adewunmi's gauntlet pulsed, its oily black surface shimmering with stolen memories: her father's laugh, Iyaoluwa's lullabies, the scent of burnt yams from the festival that never was. Each heartbeat fed the corruption, each breath a bargain with the gate's remnants festering in her soul.
Focus. She leapt down, landing silently. The villagers froze, their gazes darting between her and the false idol.
"She's the curse!" a man shouted, brandishing a machete. "The witch who summoned the storms!"
The golden woman smiled, its edges too sharp. "You see? They fear what they cannot control."
Adewunmi lunged, gauntlet swiping through the illusion. It dissolved into fireflies, laughter echoing. The villagers recoiled, some falling to their knees, others fleeing into the trees.
"Wait!" Adewunmi called, but the clearing emptied, leaving her alone with the whispers of her failures.
Oya's Proposition
At dusk, she found Oya waiting at the gate's wound—a jagged rift in reality, oozing ichor that crystallized into obsidian shards. The Orisha perched on a rock, her stormlit form flickering between woman and tempest.
"Chasing ghosts," Oya tutted. "How mortal of you."
Adewunmi flexed the gauntlet, tendrils of shadow lashing. "You know what that thing is."
"A mirror," Oya said. "A reflection of the power you deny yourself. Let me teach you to wield it, and I'll crush the mimic myself."
"Why?"
"Because watching Sango grovel for forgiveness will amuse me." Oya's eyes darkened. "And because Adéọlá's blood deserves more than a martyr's pyre."
The gauntlet hissed, its whispers merging with Oya's. Adewunmi turned away. "I don't need your games."
Oya's laughter followed her into the trees. "You'll beg for them soon enough."
Mother's Shadow
Iyaoluwa was digging.
Adewunmi found her at the temple ruins, fingernails bloodied, chanting in a language dead for centuries. The moon painted her mother's face in shades of madness, her eyes milky and unseeing.
"Ẹni tí ó ti sọnu…" She who was lost…
"Mama!" Adewunmi grabbed her shoulders, but Iyaoluwa thrashed, strength unnatural.
"…must rise again!"
The gauntlet reacted, shadowy tendrils pinning Iyaoluwa to the ground. Adewunmi recoiled—the corruption had moved without her command.
Her mother's eyes cleared, tears cutting through the dirt on her cheeks. "She's in me, Ade. Your ancestor… she's hungry."
Erinlẹ's Due
Erinlẹ came at midnight.
Adewunmi stood guard over her sleeping mother when the forge stench hit—scorched metal and charred bone. The war Orisha materialized in the doorway, his molten gaze searing the hut's shadows.
"Dawn approaches," he rumbled. "My blade is ash, yet my toll remains unpaid."
Adewunmi stepped between him and Iyaoluwa. "Take me instead."
"Your soul is a rotten fruit," Erinlẹ sneered. "I want hers."
The gauntlet flared, its ichor dripping like venom. "Touch her, and I'll carve a new wound in your realm."
Erinlẹ laughed, the sound cracking clay pots. "You wear defiance well, little storm. But debts always collect." He vanished, leaving embers swirling in his wake.
Iyaoluwa stirred, her whisper raw. "You can't save me, child."
Adewunmi clenched the gauntlet. Watch me.
The Golden Snare
The doppelgänger returned at dawn, its light blinding.
Adewunmi tracked it to the riverbank, where villagers knelt in worship, their skin threaded with gold. The mimic stood atop the water, its form rippling. "Join us," it called. "The storm is coming."
"What are you?" Adewunmi demanded.
"A promise." The mimic's voice fractured into Adéọlá's. "A future where gods kneel and mortals reign."
The gauntlet surged, darkness clashing with the gilded light. Adewunmi fought for control, but the corruption slithered into the river, poisoning it black. Villagers screamed as their golden veins turned necrotic.
Oya appeared in a whirlwind, her winds scouring the mimic's light. "Strike now!"
Adewunmi hesitated—the mimic wore her mother's face now.
A blade pierced her side.
She turned. Baba Ifa stood behind her, his dagger dripping, eyes vacant gold. "For the village," he rasped.
The mimic laughed. The world went dark.