Night came softly to Ugbene, but for Amarachi, sleep did not.
She sat alone on the threshold of her late mother's shrine, her arms wrapped around her knees, her hair cascading in dark rivers down her back. The wind that whispered through the sacred grove tonight was warm—unnaturally so—and it carried the faint scent of ash.
She knew that smell too well.
It was the scent of endings.
Alaric had not followed her after the cleansing. She was glad for that. There were pieces of her he wasn't ready to see. And maybe… she wasn't ready to let him see them.
The moon hung low and red tonight, like an omen bleeding into the sky. The trees seemed to bend in reverence as she rose slowly and stepped through the carved arch of the shrine. It had been sealed for nearly ten years—since the night her mother died.
The door groaned open.
Inside, the air was stale but electric. Dust danced on the beams of moonlight. Ancient feathers and bones hung from the rafters. The earth floor was cool under her feet, and the walls were lined with bundles of herbs and woven charms. In the center of the space sat the fire pit—dead cold now, though once it had burned with her mother's voice.
She knelt before it, placing her hand over the blackened ash.
Her voice, though soft, was steady.
"Mother. I need to remember."
And just like that—the fire came alive.
Not with flame, but with memory.
It began as a hum beneath her skin, then blossomed into sound, scent, image. The room pulsed around her, becoming a living echo of a time she had long buried.
She was twelve again. Small, wide-eyed, wild with questions. Her mother—Nwunye—stood tall and radiant by the fire, her dark skin dusted with chalk sigils, her braided hair laced with cowrie shells. She was beautiful, in a way that silenced rooms. She was feared, but she was also loved—the last true flame-bearer of the village.
That night had started like any other.
The spirits had been quiet. The river had flowed true. And yet, Nwunye had moved like a woman carrying a final burden.
"I won't be here much longer," she had said that evening, when the two of them sat at the fire. "You must begin to listen."
Amarachi had scoffed, too young to understand. "You always say strange things like that."
But her mother had smiled sadly. "Because the truth is too heavy to tell all at once."
She reached forward then and placed her hand on Amarachi's chest. "You were born under a broken moon. A storm child. You carry two hearts—one for love, one for flame. The Codex recognized you before you even drew breath."
Amarachi remembered blinking up at her, confused. "What is the Codex?"
"It is the memory of the gods," her mother had said. "A flame that sings. A science of the soul. It does not want to be found. But you were born to find it."
"But why me?"
Nwunye had drawn her close, kissed her forehead.
"Because I failed."
That night, the witches had come.
They did not arrive in human form. They came as smoke, shadow, and whisper. They did not break the door—they bled through it. Eyes that burned violet. Hands that flickered like candlelight.
Amarachi had hidden behind the altar, just as her mother instructed.
She remembered every second.
Her mother standing with arms raised, her entire body aflame with golden sigils, calling the river to rise. She remembered the clash of power—light versus shadow—heat against hunger. And she remembered the scream.
Not her mother's.
Her own.
Because in the end, Nwunye had poured every ounce of her fire into the spell that sealed the shrine and sent Amarachi fleeing into the night. Her last act had not been vengeance. It had been protection.
The fire dimmed. The memory receded. But the pain remained—deep, rooted, permanent.
Amarachi pressed her forehead to the earth.
"I never told you goodbye."
Silence.
Then… a breeze.
Soft and scented with palm oil.
Her mother's voice—only a breath, but unmistakable.
"You carry more than my flame, child. You carry my love. And it cannot be extinguished."
A single tear slid down Amarachi's cheek.
When she finally stood, something had changed. Her eyes were sharper. Her breath steadier. She was not just a vessel now.
She was awake.
As she stepped from the shrine, a figure waited near the grove's entrance.
Alaric.
He did not speak. He simply held out her staff, which she had left behind earlier.
Amarachi took it.
Their fingers brushed, and the sigils along her arms glowed in response.
His voice was quiet. "I felt something… shift."
She nodded. "It did."
They stood in silence, the wind rising between them.
"Will you tell me what happened?" he asked.
"Not yet," she said. "But soon."
And then she whispered, "When I do… you'll have to choose if you'll burn with me—or run."
He didn't flinch. "I already chose."
She looked at him, truly looked, and something in her heart loosened.
Perhaps this time, she would not burn alone.