The forest deepened where the sun no longer touched.
Far beyond the sacred groves and hunting paths, hidden beneath the root-web of an ancient silk-cotton tree, the witches gathered. A hollow had been carved into the earth not by tools but by time, death, and the whispering will of those who had long outlived their human names.
They called it Ogwugwu Iyi—the Abyss of the River's Wrath.
Inside, there was no fire. Only smoke that glowed.
The walls of the lair pulsed like muscle—alive with sigils etched in bone, ash, and blood. Hundreds of them, flickering faintly as if breathing. There was no ceiling, only a thick canopy of roots above that wept sap like tears from a buried god. The air thrummed with power. With hunger.
Thirteen witches stood in a ring, faces veiled in black gauze, each robe soaked in blood—not fresh, but layered in ritual. Their mouths moved in unison, not speaking language, but tone. The chant wound through the chamber like a serpent, tightening around the soul.
At the center knelt a girl.
Young. Trembling. Her eyes wide with a blank, eerie calm.
Her name had been Chioma.
Now, she was nothing—and that was the point.
The High Witch stepped forward.
She was known as Ezuma, and no veil hid her face.
Her skin was dark obsidian, cracked like volcanic glass. Her hair hung like wet vines, woven with the bones of infants and lovers alike. Her eyes were not white but the color of absence—pits where starlight was swallowed. She had lived many lives. She had buried more.
"She is ready," one witch whispered.
Ezuma tilted her head, inspecting the girl. "Her will is weak. That is good."
Another witch extended a dagger carved from human femur. Ezuma took it reverently, kneeling beside the girl. Her voice rose—this time a hymn, ancient and foul.
She drew the blade across her own palm.
Dark blood poured.
With her other hand, she marked the girl's brow, heart, and womb.
The sigils hissed as if branded.
"Ogbajulu eme." She spoke in the dead tongue. "You are broken. Now you will be bound."
The girl's body convulsed. Her eyes rolled back. Her mouth opened, and black smoke poured out—curling, twisting, rejoicing.
The chamber moaned with it.
Ezuma stood. "One more voice joins the chorus."
Another witch hissed: "And the Flame-Bearer?"
Ezuma's smile was jagged. "She remembers. She grows stronger."
"Then why not kill her now?" one spat.
Ezuma turned slowly. "Because the Codex cannot be claimed through brute force. It must be given. And Amarachi must offer it willingly… or be broken like the others."
The witches chanted again—this time faster, more fevered.
Ezuma lifted her hands. The sigils blazed in the walls.
From the shadows, something stirred.
A creature. No longer human. Its limbs were too long. Its eyes too many. Its mouth stitched, yet still screaming.
Once, it had been a man of the village.
Now, it served.
Ezuma called it forward and placed her hand on its head.
"You will watch them," she said. "The flame and the stranger. If they find the Codex first, bring me their hearts."
The creature nodded, silent and shuddering, then vanished into the walls.
Ezuma turned to the coven.
"The gods chose Amarachi," she said. "But she carries the flaw of her mother—love."
They hissed.
"We will let her love the stranger. Let her trust him. Let her burn for him. And then…"
She smiled, slow and cruel.
"…we take everything."