The village was wrong.
Leonotis felt it the moment their boots pressed against the packed dirt of its main road. The air was thick with the smell of smoke from cookfires, but none were burning. The windows of the huts they passed glowed faintly with lamplight, yet every door remained firmly shut. No children chased each other through the alleys. No merchants haggled. Not even the dogs barked.
It was as if the entire village was holding its breath.
Low walked a step behind him, hand on the hovered over her bag of rocks. "Where is everyone?" she whispered, her voice tight.
Jacqueline shook her head, her eyes scanning the rooftops. "They're hiding."
Zombiel finally spoke. His voice carried an uneasy echo. "No. They're afraid."
They moved carefully, their footsteps crunching too loudly on the silent street. The sky above was bruised with purple dusk, shadows spilling from the edges of the forest. Leonotis tried to ignore the prickling at the back of his neck, the way his affinity with the earth whispered of unease beneath the soil.
Then they heard it.
A cry. High-pitched, desperate. A woman's voice, calling for help.
"Over there!" Leonotis said, already sprinting toward the sound. He ducked between two huts, the others close behind. The cry came again, this time weaker, tinged with agony.
They burst into the narrow lane beside the graveyard. The sound was close now, so close—
Then it stopped.
The silence that followed was thicker than before, oppressive.
Low's eyes widened. She pointed with a trembling hand. "There."
At first Leonotis thought it was a man crouched in the dirt, shoulders heaving. But as his eyes adjusted, he saw the thing's proportions were wrong—its arms too long, its spine too bent, its skin sagging in patches like wet cloth. Its head twitched, jerking at angles no neck should allow.
And then it turned.
Its eyes were pits of shadow. Its mouth stretched wide, wider, until it looked as though it would split its own face. When it screamed again, the sound was perfectly human. A child's voice this time, shrill and terrified.
Jacqueline's hand flew to her mouth. "It's not real…"
Leonotis's breath caught. He'd read stories, whispers carried by traders, but he had never believed them. "A Wigu."
Zombiel's jaw clenched, ghost-fire sparking faintly between his fingers. "It followed us."
The Wigu rose slowly, bones crackling. Something dangled from its neck—a limp, feathered shape. The faint moonlight revealed what it was.
A raven.
Half-eaten.
Low's eyes filled with horror. "Widow Eno's raven…" Her voice cracked. She thought of the old woman and her beloved bird. The sight of its mangled body hanging like a trophy broke something inside her. Her face twisted with fury.
Leonotis mind wasn't just thinking of the raven. What happened in Oja-Ibo? Was Widow Eno hurt? Was it becuase the Widow helped them save Zombiel?
"We can't let it leave," Leonotis said with his eyes burning, "Not after this."
Zombiel swallowed, forcing his fear down. "If it gets away, Njiru will know where we are."
The Wigu tilted its head, as if mocking them. Then it let out a sound that made their blood run cold—their voices. It mimicked them perfectly: Jacqueline's gentle tone, Low's growl, even Leonotis's steady cadence. Their own words thrown back at them in a hollow, broken chorus.
Low's fist tightened around a rock. "Enough of this."
Jacqueline stepped forward, her hands glowing faintly with water light. "Be careful. It's more than just a scavenger."
The Wigu's mouth stretched wider, jagged teeth glinting. It lunged.
Leonotis slammed his root-sword against the earth, forcing thick vines to burst from the ground. They wrapped around its limbs, thorns biting deep. The Wigu shrieked—not in pain, but in fury—and tore free with ease, black ichor spraying.
It bounded sideways, impossibly fast. Jacqueline raised a shield of shimmering water, the impact splashing sparks as the creature clawed against it. Low darted in with a furious strike, her blade catching its arm. For a heartbeat, its flesh hung open, revealing bone slick with shadow. Then the wound squirmed, knitting itself shut.
Low staggered back, panting. "What is this thing?"
Zombiel's eyes were like twin flames in the dim graveyard. His voice was cold. "Njiru's eyes. His ears. His mouth."
Leonotis's chest tightened. If that was true, then every second they fought was another chance for Njiru to learn where they were.
The Wigu crouched low, its jaw splitting unnaturally, and screamed again. Not a child this time. Not a woman. But all of them together—every voice it had stolen, layered in a single monstrous wail.
Low clapped her hands over her ears, dropping to her knees. Jacqueline staggered, nearly losing her concentration.
Leonotis forced himself to stand tall, his vines bristling around him like a shield. "We don't run," he said, though his voice shook. "We finish this."
The Wigu hissed, its black tongue flicking out. It had heard him. And it was hungry.