Evening returned like a scar — faintly glowing where the fire had passed.
The fields that once fed the village now lay black and brittle, the stalks of yam and cassava reduced to ash. Smoke drifted lazily toward the hills, carrying the smell of something more than burned earth — the smell of fear, heavy and unspoken.
Shango stood among the ruins, his palms streaked with soot.
Everywhere he looked, he saw reminders of what he could not save.
A child's toy, half-melted.
A woman's clay pot, cracked down the middle.
The air still hummed faintly, like thunder refusing to die.
He crouched, pressing his fingers into the scorched soil. It was warm — too warm for dusk. Sparks hissed from beneath, curling toward his skin as if drawn by something inside him.
He pulled his hand away quickly.
> "It wasn't you," came a voice behind him.
Ejiro.
The old man's robe was smeared with ash, his hair wild from the wind. He leaned on his staff, eyes reflecting the faint orange glow still licking at the horizon.
> "The fire came from the east," he continued. "From the hills beyond the Grove. They struck when the mist fell — cowards' timing."
Shango didn't answer. His jaw was tight, his gaze on the horizon.
He could still hear it — the echo of the drums that had warned him nights before.
> "And yet," he said slowly, "I felt it burn. Here."
He touched his chest.
"As if my own flame answered theirs."
Ejiro's gaze lingered on him — sorrow buried deep beneath wisdom.
> "That is the danger of being chosen, boy. The storm inside you listens to every cry of the earth. Even hatred sounds like thunder if you don't guard your heart."
A gust of wind rolled through the ruins, carrying flecks of ash that danced around them like dying spirits.
From down the hill came the faint wail of a woman — mourning. Another family's hut gone.
Another name swallowed by smoke.
Shango turned toward the sound, fists clenched.
> "How long do we keep watching them burn?"
"Until you learn why the Grove chose you," Ejiro said.
"Maybe it chose wrong."
Ejiro stepped closer, his voice suddenly hard.
> "No, boy. The Grove never chooses wrong. But men — men often misunderstand what being chosen means."
Shango met his gaze. "And what does it mean?"
The old man's staff struck the ground once.
Thunder murmured faintly in response, distant but present — like a god listening through clouds.
> "It means the world will test what you are before it lets you become who you're meant to be."
---
By nightfall, the villagers gathered near what remained of the central square. Their faces were painted with soot and grief. Children clung to mothers; the old whispered prayers.
Shango stood at the edge, unseen but felt. Whispers followed him like shadows.
> "He was near the Grove when the fire began…"
"Maybe he called it."
"The mark — it glows when he's angry…"
He could hear every word, though none dared speak to his face.
When the priest of Okechi raised his hand for silence, even the crickets seemed to hush.
> "This is no mortal fire," the priest declared. "It burns without smoke, without wood. We are under judgment — for harboring the Grove's vessel."
Ejiro rose, his staff steady.
> "Watch your tongue, priest. The boy is not your curse."
"Then whose is he?" came the reply. "No god blesses a child with lightning in his veins!"
Gasps rippled through the crowd. Shango's hand twitched — a faint spark jumped between his fingers before he forced it still.
The priest's eyes widened.
> "You see? Even now—"
Ejiro slammed his staff into the ground.
The earth groaned, and a small gust of wind blew out every torch in the square.
Darkness swallowed them whole.
Only the distant glow of the Grove's trees shimmered faintly — green and silver, like watchful eyes.
> "Enough," Ejiro's voice thundered through the dark.
"You fear what you do not understand. But remember this — the last time men cursed thunder, the sky did not forgive."
When light returned, the priest said nothing more.
The villagers dispersed slowly, leaving only Shango and Ejiro by the dying fire.
> "They'll never trust me now," Shango whispered.
"Then don't seek their trust," Ejiro replied. "Seek their safety."
The boy looked up. "And if they never see the difference?"
The old man smiled faintly, turning toward the Grove.
> "Then we teach them — not with words, but with storms that heal instead of destroy."
He began walking into the mist. Shango hesitated, then followed.
Behind them, the last embers of the fire flickered out.
The night was still again — but the wind carried a promise.
Something was coming.
And this time, the storm wouldn't wait to be called.