NALA
The forest had changed.
It was no longer the same place I'd left when the children vanished.
The air was thicker now, like breath caught between two worlds.
Every step sank deeper into the soil, the earth damp and whispering beneath my
feet. The trees leaned closer, their branches curved as though they were listening.
I clutched the cage against my chest, the bird inside trembling, feathers brushing the metal like sighs. "Hold on, Amira," I whispered. My voice barely carried. "I'm coming."
It had been hours since I re-entered. Maybe more. Time didn't move here the way it did outside. The light through the canopy shifted between dusk and dawn, but never settled.
The path she left behind was faint—footsteps softened by moss and swallowed
by roots. I kept following anyway. I had to. The deeper I went, the heavier the air grew. I could feel something in my chest, like a hand pressing—guiding, or warning, I could not tell.
When my palm brushed a tree trunk, the world tilted.
A memory that was not mine.
A memory held in the bark, carried through roots, passed into me.
And in that memory—
Amira.
Coils wrapped around her body. Breath stolen from her chest. The serpent's
scales were dark, but its presence… older than kingdoms.
I did not see with my eyes—I felt her pain.
The panic. The determination.
The moment her fear cracked and something else began to rise.
I jerked my hand back and collapsed to my knees, breath shaking.
"Hold on," I whispered, grounding my palm to the soil instead.
The dirt was cold. And yet—it answered.
A soft rhythm beneath it.
A pulse.
I swallowed hard.
"I'm coming."
AMIRA
I threw myself sideways. The ground slammed into my shoulder. Pain shot down
my back. I scrambled up, but the snake moved faster—silent, merciless. Its body
coiled around my waist, then my ribs, squeezing.
My breath shattered.
I clawed at the scales, nails breaking uselessly. The world blurred, edges
bleeding into white. I could hear my own heartbeat banging like a door someone
wanted to break down.
There is no air.
The serpent's coil crushed everything out of me—breath, thought, sound. The world blurred at the edges. My ribs felt like they were splintering apart.
I am going to die.
Not in war.
Not with a blade in my hand.
Not fulfilling any purpose.
My mind is spinning. I couldn't help but think of Nala. Of Idris. Of the promise I made.
The bird. Where is the bird?
I hear it before I see it—a flutter, It circled us above, the light from its feathers glinting through the mist. My pulse raced, I reach for it, even though I know it's hopeless.
The snake rised higher, its head level with mine now, tongue flicking close enough to brush my cheek. Its eyes are pits of gold and black, endless, ancient.
"I won't die here," I gasp, my voice a rasp. "Not yet."
The snake hisses, as if amused. The world narrows to its eyes—two suns burning through the dark.
I gasped, voice scraping:
"Help—somebody—"
But the forest did not answer.
Instead…
A familiar heat.
A warmth I had felt once before—on that night I stood atop the desert of the scorpion's shadow. When I dreamed of the war. A presence that asked:
"Do you wish to fight? Do you want to protect your people."
I had said no then.
Now my ribs were cracking.
My pulse slowing.
My sight dimming.
My lips part. Not in answer. In memory.
The voice returned.
Soft.
Close.
Inside my skull.
"Amira… kin kira ni."
(You have called me.)
My tears burned.
No.
I didn't.
I don't want you.
The snake squeezed harder. My back arched. A cry tore from my throat.
The voice did not care.
"Jininmu bai taba mutuwa ba."
(Our blood has never died.)
Heat surged under my skin—like fire spreading through my veins. My fingers
twitched, then curled into fists on their own.
I tried to open my mouth—to say stop, to say no, to breathe—but my body had
already chosen.
My pulse began to slow—not from death, but focus.
Each beat heavy. Precise.
Like a war drum being struck in a darkened hall.
Boom.
My sight sharpened.
Boom.
The snake's heartbeat pulsed against my palms.
Boom.
I felt its hunger. Its instinct. Its weakness.
But I wasn't thinking it.
I was knowing it.
My eyes fixed on its throat. My fingers moved—slow, controlled—finding the
small, vulnerable seam of scales beneath its jaw.
Not me.
Not my will.
The voice murmured:
"Kada ki mutu. Ki yi yaki."
(Do not die. Fight.)
My jaw clenched until it hurt.
The serpent hissed, its coils tightening once more—but I moved faster this time. My arms braced. My knee twisted. I shifted my weight the way warriors do—warriors I had never seen. Warriors I should not know how
to imitate.
The snake faltered. My body surged with strength that was not mine.
The snake's grip loosened.
Not because it chose to—
But because I forced it to.
My hand moved.
My knee braced.
My weight shifted.
I dragged in air that felt like smoke and iron and blood.
The snake recoiled—its ancient mind recognizing something older.
Something it did not dare challenge.
For a breath, the forest bowed.
Just a breath. Just enough.
Then—
The bird screamed.
Not a cry.
Not a sound.
A tear in the world.
The forest shook. The air rippled. Pain shot through my skull so sharp I nearly blacked out. I tried to cover my ears but couldn't move my arms—my body was trapped in its grip, and the scream sounded as though it came from inside me.
Light burst behind my eyes.
And in that light—
I saw something.
A silhouette.
A figure.
Tall. Watching.
Eyes like coals buried deep in night.
I knew that presence.
The same one from the dream.
The one that whispers to warriors as their master.
The god of war.
My voice cracked out of me, barely sound:
"Please—"
Not to be saved.
To stop.
But the voice only laughed, soft, pleased:
"Yanzu kin san ni."
(Now you know me.)
Then darkness surged through me—swift and merciful—and the world collapsed.
I fell.
Not gently.
Not safely.
Just down.
And everything went black.
NALA
The bird's cry reached me— not through sound, but through marrow.
I stumbled, clutching my chest as warmth surged through the ground beneath me.
Something had changed.
No—someone.
I stood and ran.
Branches cut my skin. Roots tore at my ankles. But the forest no longer resisted me.
It opened.
And when I reached the clearing, I saw her.
Amira, collapsed in the dirt.
The serpent gone.
The bird resting beside her, wings dim now—spent.
Everything in the forest held still.
My knees hit the ground.
"Amira… please."
A whisper. A prayer. A plea.
"Ya ubanninmu na sama… kada ku ɗauke ta daga gare ni…"
O gods of the heavens… do not take her from me.