The air in Emgodini turned thick with suspicion as another villager vanished. This time, it was the sangoma who had first warned of Nkosana's cursed birth. Her hut was found deserted—no signs of struggle, no farewell. Just an eerie silence and the smell of burnt herbs lingering.
Nkosana stood at the edge of the village graveyard that night, the moonlight casting ghostly shadows between the crooked tombstones. Something was calling him—soft, rhythmic, like whispers rising from beneath the soil.
He stepped forward, barefoot on the cold ground. A voice echoed in his head: *"We are buried, but not dead… bound to you, child of night."*
Suddenly, the earth trembled beneath him. Cracks spiderwebbed outward. A pale hand burst from the ground, clawing its way up—followed by another.
Terrified, yet strangely calm, Nkosana didn't run. He watched as skeletal figures cloaked in black mist rose from the earth, kneeling before him.
*"We are your servants,"* one hissed. *"Born from the ancient curse. Awakened by your pain."*
His heart pounded, not from fear—but from power. Real power. Not the flickers or hallucinations… but control. Dark, raw, and dangerous.
In the distance, the village bells rang wildly. Another disappearance.
Nkosana turned back toward Emgodini. For the first time, he smiled.
*"Let them fear me,"* he whispered. *"I no longer fear myself."*