Night fell heavy that evening.
The air itself seemed to watch.
From his hut, Shango could see faint orange glows flickering deep beyond the fields — torches, moving in patterns too deliberate to be a village dance. The drums were louder now, deep and metallic, echoing like the heartbeat of something old and angry.
Ejiro stood outside, eyes narrowed toward the hills. His body was tense, like a bow drawn tight.
> "The Veiled Flame," he muttered. "I hoped they'd died with the last king."
> "Who are they?" Shango asked.
> "Keepers of ruin," Ejiro said bitterly. "Men who think the gods must be forced to listen — even if it means burning their shrines to get their attention."
The torches multiplied, forming a ring of fire at the forest's edge. Shango could faintly make out figures — robed in dark crimson, faces hidden behind soot-streaked masks.
Then the chanting began.
Low, rhythmic, thick with power.
> "Ọkụ gbara n'ala… ọkụ gbara elu… let the flame remember."
It wasn't Yoruba — it was Ikwerre, the tongue of the old lands.
The words rose and fell like ocean waves, each syllable crackling with energy.
Ejiro turned sharply.
> "They are summoning something."
---
Shango felt it too.
The air trembled — faintly at first, then violently. The ground pulsed, dust rising in circles around his feet.
> "Ejiro," he said quietly, "it's coming from the Grove."
Before Ejiro could stop him, he was already running — through the grass, past the torches, heart pounding like thunder trapped inside his ribs.
The closer he got, the stranger the world became.
The wind blew backward.
Trees bent toward the flames.
Even sound itself seemed to twist.
And there, in the clearing where he had once found the mask, stood the Veiled Flame — a dozen of them, moving in perfect unison around a blackened stone altar.
Their leader, taller than the rest, raised his hands.
The fire around the altar shot upward, roaring into a spiral.
> "O children of dust!" he cried, his voice echoing with unnatural weight. "Tonight, we unbind the sky! The Grove's power will answer to man again!"
The cultists shouted as one.
Shango felt a surge of lightning ripple through his veins — his mark glowing bright beneath his skin.
The leader turned suddenly. His masked gaze locked onto Shango in the dark.
> "Ah," he said softly. "The Grove's chosen."
Shango froze. "How do you—?"
> "We have watched you since the night you touched the mask," the man said. "It was ours before you claimed it."
> "The Grove doesn't belong to you."
The man laughed, deep and cruel.
> "The gods have no ownership left. We burned their altars long ago."
---
The air cracked.
The flames turned blue.
Something began to rise from within the altar — not a person, but a shape made of smoke and light, with no clear form, just endless movement.
It whispered, but the whisper was louder than thunder.
> "Balance must break… or be born again."
Shango stepped forward, feeling the mark on his arm burn hotter.
> "Stop this!"
The cult leader sneered.
> "You think the storm obeys you, boy? You are the storm — and storms destroy."
He thrust his staff into the ground. The fire surged.
Lightning struck down from the clouds, slamming into the altar — and for a brief, blinding second, the world became nothing but white light and roaring sound.
---
When Shango woke, the clearing was ash.
The cultists were gone.
Only one thing remained — a single symbol carved into the earth, glowing faintly in the darkness.
It looked just like his mark.
But twisted.
Ejiro found him there, kneeling in the soot.
> "You saw them," he said quietly.
Shango nodded, still trembling.
> "They said they would unbind the sky."
Ejiro's face went pale.
> "Then the Grove's balance is already breaking."
Thunder rolled across the horizon. But this time, it didn't fade — it grew louder, closer, alive.