I thought the hardest part would be finding the bird.
I was wrong.
There it was—perched on a branch, shimmering in colors I had never seen on
any living creature. Every tiny movement sent a ripple through its feathers, like sunlight breaking on water. Beautiful—but not gentle. Something about it felt… ancient. A thing that did not fear being seen.
My fingers tightened around the cage. My heartbeat thudded behind my teeth.
Slow. Quiet.
I crouched, breath shallow so I wouldn't disturb the air. One wrong sound, one snapped twig, and it would vanish.
I inched forward. My knees dug into damp earth, leaves clinging to my skin.
Sweat rolled down my neck.
"Just hold still," I whispered.
The bird turned its head. Not startled. Not wary. Aware. As though it recognized me.
Something crawled up the back of my neck.
I inched closer—step, breath, step—until my knee brushed a root.
Crack.
The snap echoed through the trees like a scream.
The bird burst upward, wings flashing.
"Wait—!" I lunged after it, crashing through bush, branches whipping against my face. Leaves tangled in my hair. I chased its flicker until it landed again on another branch, farther, higher.
I slowed, chest heaving. My hands trembled as I reached into my satchel for a scrap of dried food. I crumbled it on the ground, praying hunger might lure it. The bird only blinked, tilting its jewel eyes, unimpressed.
Frustration burned in me. I clenched the cage until my knuckles ached. I couldn't fail. Not after everything. Not after losing Nala. Not after the promise we made—to come back alive. She had to be alive. She had to. I
couldn't think otherwise. I wouldn't.
I shifted forward again, silent this time. Step by step, my breath shallow, my body low. The bird shuffled its wings, ready to flee. My heart thundered. I leapt—
The ground gave way beneath me.
I crashed into a hollow, choking on dust. Pain jolted through my ribs. As I struggled
to stand on my feet, a hiss stopped me cold.
I froze.
The forest floor rose with movement—no, not movement. Breathing.
A coil.
Thick. Heavy. Alive.
An Agwa.
One of the biggest and deadliest snake of its kind. It's body gleamed like polished jade, scales glistening under the setting sun. It rose, taller than me, muscles rippling under its hide. It lifted its head, slow, deliberate. Eyes flat and endless. A creature that had seen centuries and forgotten them. Its
tongue flicked, tasting the air, tasting me.
My throat locked.
I stepped back. The cage slipped from my fingers. The bird fluttered somewhere above, but the world had narrowed to that head, that tongue flicking the air between us.
It watched me.
No rush. No fear.
Just hunger weighing its options.
Then—its muscles tightened.
It lunged.
NALA's POV
The forest was too quiet.
Not silent—silence is peaceful.
This quiet was the kind that watches you.
I walked with the birdcage in my hand, though I didn't remember picking it up. The shadows around me seemed thick, breathing in slow rhythms. The branches
overhead leaned inward, like they were listening.
Then I saw them.
Children.
Not running, not laughing, not alive.
They stood among the trees, pale and thin, their limbs sharp as brittle branches, their eyes dim like embers about to die out. They did not breathe.
They did not blink. They simply were, and that alone was enough to make the air tighten inside my chest.
They moved together—one movement shared, like they were pieces of the same
body.
Their voices came like air slipping through cracks:
"Mu nake so… ka ba mu zafi… ka ba mu numfashi…
We want… your warmth… your breath…"
I stepped back—instinct, not fear.
But something in me halted my retreat.
They weren't monsters.
Not demons.
Not cursed creatures.
They were children who had died afraid.
Their hunger was grief.
My fists slowly lowered.
"You are lost," I whispered. My voice trembled, but not from fear— from the
ache of understanding.
"You don't want my life. You just don't want to be alone."
Their whispers faltered—like a thread snapped.
One girl stepped forward.
Her flesh barely able to cover the bones, hair dull and weightless, eyes full of an ache older than I could understand.
"Gida?" she asked.
Home?
I swallowed. "Yes. I just… I don't know how to send you there."
Her expression did not change—but something in the air shifted, as if the
forest itself was waiting for what I would choose.
My knees lowered—not gently, but like I had done it a thousand times.
My hand went to the ground out of instinct—not to feel it…
…but to claim it.
The soil was cool against my palm.
Then—warm.
Not glowing.
No magic hum.
Just a feeling, that This ground knows me.
And then—
A memory that was not mine:
Hands like mine.
Dust on the forehead.
Fire circling a gathering of souls.
Soft chanting.
The work of guiding spirits home.
Was this something my people did?
I had never been taught.
But my blood had not forgotten.
My breath came slow, steady.
The earth beneath my fingers pulsed once—like a heartbeat.
Familiar.
Something in the earth acknowledged me.
And the children sensed it. Their whispers stilled.
I didn't "see" a path—not with my eyes.
It came to me the way one remembers the shape of their own home in darkness.
The children grew still.
The girl stared at me as though she recognized me now.
When I rose, I spoke with a voice of certainty I did not recognize could come from within me.
"I know the way."
Step by step, I walked.
Not led by light.
Not by visions.
But simply by remembering.
The forest didn't reveal a path—
my feet did.
The children followed, silent now, no longer begging.
Just waiting.
We crossed through bush and roots and old branches until the trees gradually opened to a clearing where the air felt lighter, thinner, kinder.
The children stopped.
I felt it before I saw it—
something releasing.
Like breath after years of holding it.
A faint sound rippled through the clearing—
Not music. Not wind.
The sound of chains being undone.
Their forms began to soften, like mist thinning under sunlight. Their faces,
once hollow, filled with relief.
Real relief.
One by one, they faded—
Except for the girl.
She remained, her outline trembling.
In her small, fading hands, she held a cage—simple, living wood, woven, not crafted.
Inside was the bird.
Alive.
Untouched.
Its feathers were not glowing, but they shimmered.
She held it to me.
"You remembered," she whispered.
Not thank you.
Not goodbye.
You remembered.
My throat tightened.
I took the cage.
"What is this?" I breathed.
"Your path," she said.
"And your warning."
Her outline wavered.
I stepped forward. "Wait—"
But she smiled. Sad. Knowing.
"Beloved of the gods, it is about time you remembered who you are."
And she dissolved.
Just like that.
The clearing was empty.
I stood there for a very long moment, the bird trembling inside its cage, my breath unsteady, my heart full and breaking at the same time.
Something inside me had awakened.
Not gently.
Not peacefully.
But undeniably.
I turned back toward the depths of the forest.
"Amira," I whispered.
"I am coming back for you."
And I walked.
The bird was quiet.
The trees did not whisper.
But the ground—
the ground remembered me now.
And I remembered it.