The winds welcomed her home.
They curled around Jabara's ankles as she stepped through the spirit gate, teasing the deep purple hem of her traveling robes, whispering in the cadence of her Orisha. A year had passed in the mortal world, but she had spent far longer in the realm-between, where time unraveled like soft cloth beneath Oya's storm-touched palms. Her bones were lighter now, as if the winds themselves had hollowed her out and filled her with breath that was not entirely her own. Her eyes glowed faint gold, the mark of one who had seated her spirit at the foot of an Orisha and returned.
The Alaàṣẹ who guarded the Lower Shrine dropped to one knee the moment they recognized her.
"High Seer Jabara… you have returned at last."
Jabara nodded once, her expression serene, though a subtle tremor disturbed the wind at her back. She inhaled slow and steady. The air tasted wrong.
Too heavy. Too tense. Too full of unspoken things.
"Rise," she said. "Tell me… what has changed since I departed?"
The Alaàṣẹ hesitated.
And the wind around Jabara stilled.
The palace was not as she had left it.
Gone were the soft songs of the attendants who used to drift through the marbled halls. Gone was the lazy heat of sunstones burning in their sconces. Instead, the entire palace felt… clenched. As though it held its breath. As though a great hand had closed over it, squeezing tightly, forcing silence into every crevice.
Even the guards looked different. They were leaner, sharper, more alert. Their gazes followed her as she walked, weighing her, deciding whether she was threat or ally.
That was new.
A year ago, she had walked these corridors with unquestioned authority.
Now she walked them with the wind at her heels, prepared.
Jabara reached the inner courtyard just as a cluster of palace attendants scattered out of her way, heads bowed so deeply their foreheads nearly brushed their knees. She paused. They trembled. Not with reverence—but with fear.
"Oya," she murmured under her breath, "what storm did I return to?"
She followed the path of memory toward the royal chambers.
But when she reached them, it wasn't the old king who waited for her.
It was an empty dais draped in black.
The wind inside her stilled, became thin and sharp.
She stared at the black cloth for a long moment before she finally spoke, her voice measured.
"So. He is dead."
A voice behind her answered. "Assassinated."
Jabara turned. Rahiya, one of the palace strategists—clever, loyal, and only ever nervous when he smelled danger—stood at the threshold. His usually neat braids were half undone, as though he had been tugging at them for days.
"High Seer," Rahiya said, swallowing hard. "We… we had hoped you would return sooner."
"I returned when Oya released me." Her tone wasn't sharp, but it brokered no argument. "Tell me everything."
Rahiya looked over his shoulder. Then back at her.
"Not here."
They walked through a narrow servant corridor. It was one of the few places in the palace not shadowed by new guards. Rahiya spoke in a rapid murmur.
"The king began to decline shortly after you departed. Not in body, but his mind…" Rahiya tapped his temple. "…it frayed. He grew paranoid. He closed court sessions for weeks. The frayed alliances with other kingdoms deterriorated into full blown wars. He ordered documents destroyed. He forbade anyone from seeing the prince."
"The hidden prince," Jabara said softly. "Rega."
Rahiya nodded. "Yes. His existence was still secret then. The king had kept him secluded for years."
"And now?"
"Now he wears the crown."
Jabara's expression didn't change, but the wind ruffled sharply in the corridor.
She had met Rega only once—briefly, years ago, before he had been spirited away into secrecy. Even then he had been unreadable. Quiet. Watchful. Almost too calm for a child.
"What of the king's death?" she asked.
Rahiya's lips thinned. "Only those present in the palace that night knew the details. And… every single one of them has disappeared."
"Disappeared," Jabara repeated. "By whose order?"
"No one knows."
She did not respond.
She did not need to.
A High Seer did not believe in coincidences.
They stepped out into one of the inner gardens, feigning casual conversation. The garden was one of the few places left untouched—lush palms, ribbon-leaved shrubs, and small trees arranged to mimic a natural clearing. But even here, the air felt pressed down.
"Some believe the king killed himself," Rahiya said quietly.
Jabara scoffed. "He would never. His pride alone would forbid it."
"Others think Rega had him killed."
"And what do you think?"
Rahiya hesitated.
"That," he whispered, "is why we needed you back."
Jabara folded her arms, eyes narrowing slightly. The wind wound between her braids, lifting them lazily.
"And the people? Do they accept him?"
"Some love him. Some respect him," Rahiya said bitterly. "Or rather—they respect the version of himself he shows them. Calm. Measured. Clever. A perfect king carved out of marble. He's strict but fair. The nobels however less so."
"Most of the nobels were corrupt fiends."
"Yes, and they have grown silent during Rega's rule. Mostly trying to keep their heads."
Jabara raised a brow. "You sound almost jealous."
Rahiya shook his head. "I am… afraid, Jabara. Everything has shifted. And the truth is locked behind too many doors."
She stepped closer, lowering her voice.
"Rahiya, I must know. Does Rega know I have returned?"
"Yes," he said. "He asked for you."
Jabara's eyes hardened.
"And what does the new king want?"
"To appoint you," Rahiya said reluctantly, "as the official Herald of the Sunstone Tournament."
The wind surged around them—an echo of Oya's laugh, sharp and incredulous.
"Herald?" she repeated. "That post is ceremonial. A glorified announcer."
"It also keeps you in public view," Rahiya said softly. "Which means no one can make you disappear quietly."
Ah.
So that was the game.
"Very well," she murmured. "If he wishes me in the open, let him place me there."
But inside her, a knot tightened.
Because the boy she remembered—the hidden prince—had not been foolish.
And a man who rose to power in silence was rarely innocent.
They entered the Grand Hall where the new king held court.
Two enormous stone wolves—symbols of royal vigilance—flanked the entrance. Their eyes glowed faintly red, enchanted to sense hostile intent. Jabara walked between them. They did not react.
Inside, King Rega sat upon the throne.
He looked nothing like the secluded youth she remembered. He had grown into sharp lines and colder eyes, wearing a calm that seemed carved into his bones. His posture was flawless. His crown sat on his head as though born there.
His gaze lifted.
"High Seer Jabara," he said smoothly. "Welcome home."
She bowed. Not deeply. Not shallowly. Correctly.
"Your Majesty."
The court watched, breath held.
Rega's eyes traveled over her—assessing, curious, too still.
"I trust your spiritual journey was enlightening," he said.
"It was necessary," she replied. "As storms often are."
His eyebrow twitched almost imperceptibly. A flicker.
He remembered her affinity.
Good.
"Much has changed since you departed," Rega continued. "We now stand on the eve of the Sunstone Tournament. The first under my rule."
"And you wish me to serve as Herald," she said.
He smiled. It did not reach his eyes.
"Yes. The people love you. They trust your voice. Your presence will strengthen the kingdom's unity. And…" He paused, just a moment too long. "…it keeps you visible to me."
Jabara held his gaze.
Ah. So he would not pretend.
"How reassuring," she murmured.
Rega waved a hand. "You will announce the combatants each day. Deliver omens, blessings, and the official opening speech. In return, you will have unrestricted access to the arena grounds and the Sunstone archives."
Jabara stiffened—just barely.
Why give her that?
Unless he wanted her to find something.
Or wanted to see what she would do with it.
Before she could answer, a new presence approached. Kenya, one of Rega's closest advisors, stepped forward. Her dark armor gleamed, her eyes sharp as flint.
"The king honors you," Kenya said. "Most would kill for such a position."
Jabara smiled politely.
"Most do not understand true honor."
Rega rose, descending the dais with measured elegance.
His voice lowered.
"High Seer… you will serve my kingdom well."
It was a command wrapped in silk.
Jabara inclined her head.
"As Oya wills."
Later, after court dispersed, Jabara made her way toward the arena grounds to inspect her new responsibility. Wind curled around her shoulders, restless.
The palace had lied to her.
The king had lied to her.
Even the walls seemed to whisper falsehoods.
But she was not the same Seer who had left a year ago.
Oya had remade her in the storm.
As she passed one of the lower balconies, she caught sight of movement below—the fighters training, the crowd gathering, the Sunstone gleaming like a burning heart at the center of the arena.
This tournament was more than spectacle.
It was a crucible.
And she, the Herald, would stand where every secret converged.
The wind whispered in her ear:
Watch closely.
Jabara's eyes lifted, cold and sharp as a coming storm.
"I will."
The private antechamber behind the Royal Dais was dim, lit only by a single hanging sunstone whose glow pulsed like a slow heartbeat. King Rega stood with his back to it, hands clasped behind him, posture straight as a spear. Kenya and Zuri—his two bodyguards—remained a respectful distance behind, though their eyes tracked every movement in the room with predator focus.
"She carries herself as though nothing has changed," Kenya muttered, arms crossed. "As though she didn't walk straight into a different kingdom entirely."
Rega did not turn."She knew the moment she stepped through the gates," he said. "Jabara always knows more than she says."
"That's what unsettles me," Zuri replied quietly. "She looks at people the way surgeons look at organs—measuring what can be removed."
A knock sounded.
"Enter," Rega said.
Zuberi pushed through the door—still dusted from his patrol, bowing deeply.
"Your Majesty."
Rega finally turned from the balcony, studying the warrior with a calm, unreadable expression.
"Zuberi," he said, "you saw her more closely today than most. Tell me—what do you think of the High Seer?"
Zuberi hesitated only a heartbeat.
"She is… a powerful woman," he said carefully. "And the people love her deeply. Her return has stirred something. Hope, perhaps."
Rega's jaw tightened almost imperceptibly.
"Watch her," he said.
Zuberi blinked. "Of course, Majesty. But… if I may—what concerns you about her?"
Kenya shot him a sharp look, but the question was already in the air.
Rega's eyes narrowed, a flicker of annoyance crossing his otherwise composed features.
Zuberi immediately bowed lower. "Forgive me. I spoke out of place."
Rega waved it off with a stiff motion.
"No. It is a reasonable question." His gaze drifted toward the closed doors separating them from the throne room. "But my reasoning is not one I share lightly."
Zuberi bowed again. "I will watch her, Majesty. Closely."
"Good," Rega said.
Zuberi backed out of the chamber, closing the door behind him.
A long silence followed.
Kenya broke it first. "He doesn't know, does he?"
"Hm." Rega's eyes traced the stone floor. "I don't know about that one either. Too earnest. Too loyal. Men like that either become great… or dangerous."
Zuri shifted. "And Jabara?"
Rega exhaled slowly.
"All seers are suspect to me," he said. "Every last one." His voice darkened. "They claim to speak for Orisha who, in truth, do not care for humans as much as they pretend."
Zuri inclined her head. "So you truly believe none of them are guided?"
Rega's expression hardened.
"I believe they hear whispers of storms and claim they are prophecies. Nothing more."
"And Jabara?" Kenya asked.
Rega stared toward the throne as if seeing something far beyond it.
"Jabara," he said quietly, "is the most dangerous of them all. Because she believes the whispers are real. And if the people trust her more than me they won't question her."
Kenya folded her arms, gaze sharp. "If she becomes a threat?"
Rega's eyes flickered with cold calculation.
"Then we will silence the storm."