The moon hung low, casting an eerie blue over the landscape of eMhlangeni. Silence blanketed the village, but Nkosana couldn't sleep. Ever since the graveyard dream, he felt something calling to him—not in words, but in raw sensation, like a cold hand pressed against his spine.
His grandmother's hut creaked softly as he stepped outside. The wind carried whispers—actual whispers—too faint to understand but too real to ignore.
He followed them.
They led him past the cattle kraals, past the dry riverbed, and into the thorny brush. There, buried under layers of dust and forgotten offerings, was an old stone. A name was etched into it in blood-red paint: *Zamcolo*.
Nkosana froze.
He didn't remember ever hearing that name. But his body knew it. His blood recoiled, his breath shortened.
As he bent to touch the stone, the wind died.
A voice—raspy and ancient—rattled in his ears:
*"You were never meant to be free, seed of sorrow."*
The earth trembled slightly. Cracks formed around the stone. Something was buried beneath, something alive… or refusing to stay dead.Nkosana backed away, but it was too late. The curse had been disturbed again. And now, it wanted out.