Heat shimmered above the sands, blurring the horizon into a molten mirage, and from that living fire rose the Coliseum of Ọ̀yọ́-Ìlú—a fortress of stone that was just behind the palace. The roar of thousands poured from its open tiers, a sound like the breath of a sleeping god.
Drums thundered from the upper balconies—massive hide drums, beaten by warriors from every kingdom under heaven. Their rhythms were ancient, their voices older still. It was said that the Orisha themselves listened when those drums spoke.
Leonotis stood among the gathered warriors in the outer yard, his heart pounding in time with that relentless rhythm. His linen-wrapped sword hung at his hip, the leather straps of his disguise itching against his neck. Around him, hundreds of fighters prepared—tying charms, whispering prayers, or staring coldly at the entrance gates that would soon open to blood and glory.
The air itself seemed alive with àṣẹ, thrumming like a thousand unseen currents. Leonotis could feel it—rushing through the ground, weaving through the hearts of men, coiling up into the banners that fluttered above the coliseum's walls. Each banner bore the same symbol: a golden lion, the sigil of King Rega.
Leonotis couldn't help but be awed.
He'd dreamed of seeing this place his whole life—he just hadn't imagined standing inside it, pretending to be someone he wasn't.
Beside him, Low adjusted her own disguise.
Or rather—Grom, as she called herself now.
Her hair was matted with desert dust, a false beard glued haphazardly across her chin, and her new weapon—a stone axe—rested easily on her shoulder. Her eyes scanned the yard with a veteran's calm.
"Stop fidgeting," she muttered without looking at him.
Leonotis froze, mid-adjustment. "I'm not—"
"You are," she cut in. "You look like you're guilty of something."
"I look ridiculous," he hissed back, tugging at the edges of his tunic.
Low's lips twitched beneath the fake beard. "That too."
Leonotis bit back a laugh. He knew she was right. Among the hardened warriors surrounding them—mercenaries, bounty hunters, soldiers of fortune—he stuck out like a lost goat in a pack of lions. His hands were too clean, his stance too unsure, and his eyes carried too much wonder for someone supposed to be here for blood.
Everywhere he turned, he caught glances—some curious, others predatory. One warrior, his skin painted in streaks of white clay, met Leonotis's gaze and smiled. There were too many smiles like that here.
"Stay close," Low said, voice low and calm. "And remember what I told you—if anyone asks, you're my apprentice. I teach you how to kill things."
Leonotis grimaced. "That's reassuring."
Low shrugged. "It's the truth, eventually."
He was about to retort when the first horn sounded—a long, echoing wail that rolled through the arena like thunder. The crowd answered with a deafening roar. The gates leading into the fighting grounds began to creak open, the sound of heavy chains grinding against stone.
A herald's voice rang out, magically amplified to reach every ear.
"Champions of the Nine Kingdoms, the eyes of Ọ̀yọ́-Ìlú are upon you!
The Culling begins! Step forth, prove your strength, and claim the right to ascend!"
The yard erupted into motion. Warriors tightened grips on weapons, slapped their chests, shouted war cries. Some prayed. Others laughed.
Leonotis's breath caught in his throat. This was it.
Low turned to him, her tone abruptly serious. "You ready?"
He shook his head. "No."
"Good," she said, flashing a grin. "Means you'll live longer."
Before he could answer, she was already walking toward the entrance, her axe gleaming in the sunlight. Leonotis hurried after her, trying to ignore the churning dread in his stomach.
They passed under the gate into the shadow of the coliseum walls. The heat lessened, but the air grew heavier—charged with the power of thousands watching, waiting. Leonotis could hear the crowd now, their voices blending into a living storm above.
As they entered the main tunnel, Leonotis glanced up and caught sight of Zombiel in the stands.
Even from this distance, he was unmistakable—still as stone, his gaze locked on the fighters below. His eyes didn't blink. They hardly ever did. Around him, nobles shifted uncomfortably, pretending not to notice the unease he radiated.
Beside him, Jacqueline sat with her hat pulled low, her slender frame tense as a drawn bow. She wasn't watching the spectacle—she was watching the people watching it. Her eyes flicked from one warrior to the next, tracking, calculating.
When her gaze briefly met Leonotis's, she gave a tiny nod—barely noticeable—but enough to steady him.
Then she looked away, back to Zombiel, whispering something he didn't hear.
The tunnel opened into the heart of the arena.
Sunlight struck like a hammer. The vast amphitheater unfolded before him—tiers upon tiers of stone seats, each one packed with roaring citizens, nobles, and foreign dignitaries. Golden dust rose from the ground with every footstep, shimmering in the light like embers.
In the center, a circle of sacred symbols had been etched into the sand—the mark of the Orisha. Priests in crimson robes walked the perimeter, sprinkling oils and whispering invocations to bind the fighting ground in divine witness.
Every match, every strike, every death, would be seen by the Orisha.
Leonotis swallowed hard. "It's… huge," he murmured.
Low grinned nervously, her false beard barely hiding it. "It's home, if you survive long enough."
The announcer's voice thundered again, introducing each fighter by title, clan, and style. The crowd answered with cheers and jeers alike. Some names carried weight—others, like Leonotis's hastily fabricated alias, passed unnoticed.
"Next—Grom Stonehand, and, Lia of the Greenwater!"
The crowd murmured at the odd pairing. Low's hand brushed his shoulder briefly. "That's our cue."
Leonotis stepped into the sun.
The heat hit him full force, searing through his disguise, his doubts, his fear. For a moment, he thought he might faint. Then the ground pulsed beneath his feet—faint, but real. The whisper of roots stirring deep below, as if the earth itself were waking.
He took a breath. The scent of dust and life filled his lungs.
Low raised her axe to the crowd, grinning wide. The cheers grew louder.
Leonotis followed her lead, his hand brushing the hilt of his linen-wrapped sword.
For a heartbeat, the drums fell silent. The air thickened.
And in that stillness, the world seemed to hold its breath.
From the upper terraces of the Coliseum of Ọ̀yọ́-Ìlú, conch horns sounded—long, trembling notes that rippled through the stands and over the waiting sands below.
Then came the banners.
One by one, they entered the arena, carried by temple attendants robed in colors of sacred lineage. The crimson sun of Shango for fire and justice. The river-blue of Oshun for beauty and grace. The deep green of Yemoja for healing and protection. The silver-white of Orunmila for wisdom and destiny. The black-iron of Ogun, god of iron and war.
Each banner was more than fabric—it pulsed faintly with àṣẹ, threads humming like living things. As the wind caught them, sparks of energy shimmered across the air.
From the eastern gate, a line of griots emerged, their kora strings gleaming like rivers of light. Their voices rose in layered harmony, ancient and solemn:
"Before iron, there was word.
Before blood, there was oath.
We gather beneath the sun
That the Orisha may witness our truth."
Leonotis stood among the sea of fighters, his throat dry, his pulse quick. Even after all his travels, all his battles, he had never seen anything like this. The arena was alive—breathing, watching, remembering.
Low shifted her axe on her shoulder and muttered, "If they wanted to scare us, they've done it."
Leonotis didn't answer. His eyes were fixed on the figure approaching from the center gate.
The High Seer Jabara.
She was unlike any woman Leonotis had ever seen. Draped in white robes embroidered with storm-cloud patterns, her dark skin glistened with oil and faint runes of power. Her hair was a bushel of purple curls. A golden blindfold wrapped her eyes, but everyone felt her gaze as she walked—a presence so immense it made the air itself bend.
The griots fell silent. The drummers stopped.
Only Jabara's staff—carved from a single bolt of petrified lightning—struck the ground. Once. Twice. Three times.
Each strike echoed like thunder.
She spoke, and the arena listened.
"Children of earth and sky," her voice boomed, neither loud nor soft but all-encompassing, "you stand before the gaze of the Orisha, before the witness of King Rega, before the eyes of the ancestors. Today begins the Culling—the trial that separates blood from spirit, strength from hubris."
A ripple of energy surged outward from her staff, a visible wave of golden light that washed over every fighter. Leonotis felt it pierce him—sharp, burning—and then cool, like water flowing through his veins.
"Your strength will not be measured by muscle or blade alone," Jabara continued. "But by the weight of your spirit. For àṣẹ is not conquered—it is borrowed. Those who misuse it will be unmade."
The words sank deep, more command than warning.
Around Leonotis, the warriors lowered their heads. Some muttered prayers. Others stood proud and silent.
Jabara raised her hand, and the banners began to sway. "Kneel, champions," he said. "Swear your oath."
Low knelt slowly, resting her axe across her knees. Leonotis followed, placing his hand upon the warm sand. The grains vibrated faintly, as if responding to the collective pulse of a thousand hearts.
The griots resumed their chant, this time softer, more intimate.
"Let none strike in cruelty.
Let none speak false before the Orisha.
Let none claim victory by deceit."
Each fighter echoed the words. Some spoke them like ritual. Others spoke them like prayer.
When the last syllable faded, Jabara lifted her staff once more and touched its tip to the sand.
A circle of light flared outward, burning patterns into the arena floor—intricate sigils representing each Orisha. The scent of ozone and myrrh filled the air.
Then came the drummers.
Their sticks struck the stretched hide with purpose. The first rhythm was deep, steady—the heartbeat of Ogun, god of strength. The next was sharp and syncopated, invoking Shango's lightning. A softer roll followed, like rain against river stone—Oshun's blessing.
Each rhythm called an Orisha to witness.
Leonotis felt it in his bones. Every beat tugged at the thread of his spirit, awakening something buried deep beneath his ribs. The sand under his knees began to pulse faintly green, and from that pulse came whispers—roots stirring, recognizing him.
He clenched his fists. Not now.
Low glanced sideways at him. "Hey, you're glowing," she muttered.
"I noticed," he whispered back, forcing his breath steady.
"Try not to get us caught before the first round."
He gave her a nervous glare that only made her grin wider beneath her crooked beard.
From the royal balcony, King Rega rose, his gold-embroidered suit glinting in the sun. His presence commanding without effort. The crowd immediately bowed their heads.
"Warriors of the Sunstone Tournament!" he thundered. "Today, you fight not only for gold or glory—but for history. For the right to etch your name into the walls of Ọ̀yọ́-Ìlú, where even Orisha come to remember!"
The crowd roared in response. Sand and sweat filled the air.
Then, with one motion of his hand, the king signaled the drummers.
The tempo changed—faster, hotter, like a storm gaining force. The banners whipped in the wind, their colors swirling in a blinding display. The ground itself began to hum.
Jabara lifted her staff high. "By the breath of Olódùmarè, by the spirits of our ancestors, the Sunstone Tournament has begun!"
A burst of light shot skyward, splitting into seven streams that arced across the coliseum like comet trails. The symbols on the ground ignited, glowing with sacred heat. The first gate creaked open, and a new rhythm began—low, primal, beckoning blood.
Leonotis rose slowly, his heartbeat matching the drum. The nervousness that had once gripped him now felt distant, replaced by something stranger—anticipation.
He looked at Low. She cracked her neck and rolled her shoulders. "There it is," she said. "The sound of trouble."
At the far end of the yard, a massive iron gate creaked open. A herald in crimson robes strode forward, his voice magically amplified.
"Warriors!" he cried, his words rolling like thunder. "By decree of His Majesty, King Rega, you stand at the gates of glory! Today begins the Call of the Gauntlet a free for all. Those who prove themselves worthy shall ascend to the one on one battles. Those who fail shall be forgotten beneath the sand."
The fighters roared in answer, some raising weapons high, others howling like beasts.
Leonotis's heart pounded. He wasn't sure if the roar thrilled him or made him sick.
The herald raised his hands for silence. "Your first test awaits. Survive the field of blood, and claim your place among the chosen!"