Ankaase Village
Inside a hut, a flaming torch cast flickering shadows along the mud-plastered walls.
"Son, must you leave so early? I understand the value of hard work, but you must also consider your well-being," a woman in her mid-thirties said gently, her simple cloth wrapped tightly from her chest to her toes. She stood behind a youth who was busily packing farm tools.
"Mother, you know today is harvest day. If I don't get there early, the herdsmen will strip the fields bare. We'll be left with nothing," the young man replied, his focus unshaken.
"Can't you wait for your sisters to go with you?"
"I'm sorry, Mother, but I can't wait for them to finish their chores."
She sighed deeply. "Why are you so stubborn?"
"I'm not, Mother. I just want to provide for all of you," he said, standing up. He tied a dagger around his waist and looked into his mother's concerned eyes with a reassuring smile. Her fears weren't unfounded—he was indeed heading out earlier than usual. But he knew he must, or risk his family going hungry.
"Then at least accept my blessing."
"You're just like your father," she said with a mix of fondness and exasperation. "So headstrong. I can only ask the gods to protect you."
She reached out, placing her hands on his forehead. "May the gods shield you. May the spirits of our ancestors guide your path."
He nodded, embraced her tightly, then turned to leave the hut.
Outside, the village slumbered under a dark sky, veiled by the last clutches of night. The compound was quiet, the distant murmur of livestock the only sound. Thatched roofs shimmered faintly under the moonlight, and carved wooden totems stood as silent sentinels beside each home—ancestral protectors of Ankaase.
Ankaase was a land of rich history, nestled between the twin hills of Nyamedua and Obosomfie. Sacred groves whispered secrets to the wind, and river spirits were said to dance in the light of the full moon. Every house bore the marks of old craftsmanship, with motifs carved into door frames—symbols of strength, fertility, and cosmic balance. The people lived by the rhythms of the land and the seasons, guided by ancient rites and the counsel of elders.
The young man—Adu—strode along a winding footpath, bordered by cassava and plantain fields. A sack lay across his back, a flaming torch in one hand, his simple animal skin garb clinging to his waist. The faint rustle of morning wind carried the scent of soil and green. He was not just a farmer—he was the first son of one of Ankaase's founding families, with responsibilities stretching beyond mere crops.
Unbeknownst to him, a shadow trailed closely behind.
Still ruminating on his sister's cryptic words from the night before—about strange sounds in the dark—he was slow to react when—
Krack! —a sound split the silence. He spun around, but too late. A figure lunged, arms outstretched.
BAM! He hit the ground hard, groaning in pain.
No blow came. Just stillness.
Then—nothing. No attacker above him. No voice. Only the wind.
He rose cautiously, eyes scanning the dense brush.
Was it a trick of the mind? No. He could still feel the weight from before.
The path forward seemed darker, the trees thicker. He kept walking, but now with his hand close to the hilt of his dagger.
Later, at the farm...
Adu reached the heart of his family's land—an expanse of ridged fields and groves hidden behind a curtain of trees. He placed his torch in a carved niche in a tree and knelt to uncover a small cache. Inside lay tools, seeds, and a pair of sickles. He took one, his fingers tightening around the worn handle.
The fields glistened with morning dew, the leaves whispering like old spirits. He began harvesting methodically, his motions efficient. Every cut of the sickle was a statement—of survival, of duty, of love.
As he worked, his eyes kept scanning the distance. The villagers often whispered of shadowy figures near the woods—outlanders, bandits, or worse. He dismissed such tales, but today, the silence felt heavy.
Unseen to him, several dark figures were already creeping through the field edges.
"Strike the moment you see him. Our employer promised a year's worth of food," one muttered.
"He's mine."
"Too bad he's not a girl—he'd have made a fine plaything."
Laughter echoed among them, jagged and cruel.
Meanwhile...
Adu wiped sweat from his brow. The bundle of harvested plantain grew steadily. With a grunt, he hoisted it and carried it toward a high tree with low-hanging limbs. There, he used a rope to hoist it into the air and tie it to a secure root.
Then he climbed.
High above the ground, hidden from plain sight, he reached into a forked branch where a snare line lay—meant to trip anyone approaching stealthily. He severed and retied it, ensuring it wouldn't reveal itself prematurely.
From his vantage point, he spotted movement.
Rustling—too deliberate for birds.
Shadows too large for animals.
His eyes narrowed.
Herdsmen.
His stomach dropped.
"Damn it," he whispered.
He descended silently, heart pounding, fingers wrapped tightly around his blade. Today was no longer just about the harvest. It was survival.
Adu's feet touched the earth with a soft crunch, the soil still damp from last night's rain. He crouched low, eyes scanning the brush beyond the treeline. The rustling had stopped—but not the danger. It now hung in the air like the heavy scent of charcoal before a fire.
He didn't wait.
With a swift, silent motion, he ducked behind a large cassava mound and listened.
Murmurs—several men, too close to mistake for coincidence. Not neighbors, not travelers. The cadence of their voices carried a sharpness, a coarseness that didn't belong to Ankaase.
Then—steel against stone. A sharpening sound.
Adu slid his dagger from its sheath. The blade glinted in the morning light, its edge kissed with oil and intention.
From his cover, he glimpsed them.
Five of them.
Dark leather garbs. No tribal cloth. Faces smeared with ochre to distort recognition. But their eyes—bloodlust.
They moved with confidence, not like thieves, but like men on a mission.
He overheard one grunt: "Make it look like a cattle trampling. The chief won't question a herdsman's blunder."
"The bounty's high for a farmer," another muttered. "Makes you wonder who fears his survival."
Adu's blood chilled.
They weren't just raiding. They were hunting—him.
And someone had paid for it.
Who?
He scanned the surroundings. No allies. No escape through the fields—they'd boxed him in like prey. He'd have to be clever.
Not today, he whispered to himself.
Adu reached up, untied the rope fastened to the harvest load still suspended in the tree. It dropped with a heavy thud.
"Over there!" one shouted.
As they advanced, Adu sprinted left—towards the gulley near the forest's edge, where old hunter traps lay forgotten.
They gave chase.
His feet pounded the earth, muscles burning, lungs heaving. Arrows thudded into the tree trunks around him.
Then—a snap! A guttural cry. One of the men fell into a concealed pit, impaled on sharpened stakes. Chaos erupted.
Adu turned swiftly, eyes wild, heart hammering. He spotted another attacker flanking wide. Too late to run.
He met him head-on.
Their blades clashed with a screech. Adu ducked a wild swing, rolled forward, and slashed across the man's thigh. Blood sprayed. The attacker screamed.
But Adu didn't stop. He grabbed a handful of soil and flung it in the face of another charging assailant. Blinded, the man swung aimlessly. Adu's dagger found his side.
Two down.
Three remained—and one barked into the forest, "Abort! He's trained!"
The others hesitated.
But Adu advanced—relentless, calculated, furious.
"You want me?" he growled. "Come earn your pay."
The remaining herdsmen retreated, dragging their wounded as they vanished back into the thickets, leaving only the sounds of rustling brush and pained groans.
Adu collapsed to his knees, panting. His arms trembled—not from fear, but from rage. This wasn't random.
Who sent them?
And why?
Back in the village…
Old Akoto, the village priest, sat beside a dying flame, eyes shut, mouth whispering incantations in the old tongue.
His fingers trembled as bones fell from his palm, scattered across the calabash.
A pattern.
Unmistakable.
"Dark blood flows from beneath our roots," he murmured. "The son of Adusei walks in the shadow of a hidden war."
In the forest…
Adu tended a shallow wound across his side, bandaging it with cloth torn from his shirt.
Then he buried the two attackers—out of respect, not forgiveness.
Among the belongings of the man who'd issued commands, Adu found a scroll sealed in red wax—marked not with any known clan, but a symbol he'd only seen once.
Etched into an old carving in the sacred grove—a crest stricken from the village's history.
Adu's eyes narrowed.
He didn't know this enemy.
But this enemy knew him.
And they feared him.
The hunter in him stirred.
"Let them come," he muttered. "The gods aren't finished with me yet."