1. — The Naaba's Heirs
The great hall of the palace was a shell of silence. The tapestries rustled like leaves about to fall; the carefully spaced torches cast a warm light that failed to dispel the severity of the faces. In front of the throne, two still-childlike figures trembled under the weight of a reproach that was not merely personal: it carried the density of a warning addressed to fate.
The Naaba (Mooré: king) stood straight, imposing, his beard braided with silver rings. By his side, the Mama (queen mother) held the word like a spear: she cast it, she held it, she did not withdraw it. The two boys, Kulu and Thulo—heirs, sons of the blood—looked at the floor, their lips immobile. They knew, and yet, a moment's disobedience had opened a world of consequences.
—"Kulu Zal'Maru! Thulo Zal'Maru!" cried the Mama, her voice sharp with indignation.
—"What possessed you to enter the forbidden part of the bush? If something had happened to you... what would become of our people?" she demanded, as if the question, by its sheer force, could mend the order.
The Naaba spoke next, with the slowness of a father who weighs each word so the lesson remains:
—"Your mother is right. If I hadn't arrived when I did, the black panther would have devoured you. Do you even know what it means to be an heir? Do you know what the Naam (the power) that you carry in your blood is? A king must learn fear but must not surrender to it."
Kulu wanted to explain; Thulo merely trembled. But the Mama raised her dry hand, leaving no room for reply.
—"There is no 'but' that holds true," she said. "Starting today, you will not leave the palace without an escort. You will no longer go alone. You will be followed, watched, protected by the Naam-Kandã."
The doors opened as if to execute the Mama's order; about thirty women entered the hall, their firm steps resounding. The ochre red and black of their attire clashed amid the gilded ornaments; the metallic braids softly chimed. They moved with precise motion, a formation that was not just military but almost liturgical. They placed their Kandã-Saga—the retractable energy spears—on the ground as one lays down a promise.
The leader of the Naam-Kandã stepped forward. She was called Naam-Yelma, the Protectress of Power. She knelt and bowed her head.
—"Naam-Yelma. Protectress of the Naam," she replied. "At your command, Naaba."
The Naaba nodded, his features stern. He contemplated his sons as one contemplates a sword that has not yet been tempered.
—"So be it," he said. "You will learn how to conduct yourselves. The kingdom hangs by a thread, and that thread bears your names."
The lesson was short, the threat clear, but the following days quickly showed that an order is not enough to silence youthful ardor. Kulu looked at the horizons with the impatience of fire; Thulo clung to the reassuring hands of the world. The gap between the desire for glory and the patience of the heir deepened, imperceptible and already profound.
Weeks passed in training, lessons, and vigilance. Then came the hunting lesson, orchestrated to tame their fiery spirit and teach the heirs the movements of the bush—not to dominate it, but to read its signs.
The day unfolded in heat and the smell of earth. The kingdom's hunters led the children at a measured pace. The air buzzed with insects; clouds of dust rose as the troop trod the savannas. Kulu, young and eager to prove himself, scrutinized the top of a thicket. He saw a shape, moving, arching.
—"There!" he called out, too quickly. "I've got it!"
He threw his Saga. The javelin struck. Triumphant cries erupted, punctuated by the famous "Wou, wou, wou!"—the sound made with the hand over the mouth to signify joy and energy. The hunters cheered like voices of encouragement. Kulu stood, proud, a moment where everything seemed realized.
Thulo, however, turned pale.
—"Uh, Kulu… I don't think that's a wild boar."
Kulu's eyes squinted, alerted by the magnifying effect of ego. "Relax," he replied, convinced, carried by the ovation. "I took it down."
The ground vibrated with a rumbling, deep as the belly of a world. Hooves hammered the earth. A horde of buffalo—huge, furious, their mass bearing death—came barreling out of the plain. The hunters tried to form ranks, but fear did its work: one after another, they retreated, some turning their backs and fleeing, panic devouring them. The young eyes of the village saw their mentors desert them.
It was the Naam-Kandã who emerged where the men had yielded. They surged at the edge of the wood, fast, disciplined, as if they had been born from the earth to respond to danger. Their spears gleamed, their steps tracing perfect arcs. With a coordinated movement, they encircled Kulu and Thulo, placing their bodies between the mass and the children. The buffalo struck like waves. The crash was a tumult of horns and foam.
Then Naam-Yelma raised her voice, a sound of war that covered the drums:
—"Naam-Kandã! To your spears! Ready? For the Moaga!"
This call was more than a command: it was a conjuration, an ancestral appeal that rendered fear obsolete. The sharp-witted women deployed, striking and repelling. They fought with the precision of the artisan and the necessary fury to hold a rampart. The buffalo were contained, but a single, massive one broke the circle. It split the line and charged straight at Thulo.
Kulu screamed his brother's name:
—"Thulo!"
He pushed, trying to shove the child out of the beast's path. His hand struck him, but he couldn't pull him away fast enough. The weight of the charge hit him instead, propelling him, and he slammed against the ground. The world narrowed to a scream. Naam-Yelma, in a leap, rushed forward and yelled "No!" as if her cry could stop the relentless course. The buffalo struck, the breath escaped, and the instant shattered.
Then the memory cut like a curtain.
2. — The Echo of the Mountains
Kaelios woke up with a gasp, his fingers clenched, the taste of metal and mud in his mouth. The dream of the bush left him slowly, but his senses remained tuned to the fear and duty that had inhabited him as a child. He was in the present—at Havelune, sheltered by the World-Tree—but the blood does not forget the actions signed by suffering.
A piercing cry arose from the valley, a sound the skin recognizes before the brain. Kaelios placed his hand on the rump of the Moon-Canis—the silent, swift lunar mount—and descended. He advanced cautiously, the earth crunching under his boots, the wind biting his cheeks. The Asunra mountains formed folds, crevices, and passages that few men could explore. There, life played out in bursts, in screams, in ruptures.
He hid behind an ancient oak, its branches forming a barrier of grey-green leaves. His eyes caught the silhouettes further on: a group of ONI—dark creatures, with slick skin and angular features—were herding a griffin. Dark chains lacerated the feathers; the animal, though gigantic, twisted and screamed, a howl that pierced the very stone of the soul.
Kaelios felt anger rising like an ember. He did not move yet. The strength of his will was a cold blade; he thought first of the plan, the leverage, the strategy. Prudence had saved his life more than once. He scrutinized, measured, adjusted. Aeni—the tech consciousness cohabiting with him—whispered options.
—"Aeni."
—"Yes?" replied the inner voice, neutral and precise.
—"Sylvan Renaissance."
The ground trembled. The grasses revolted, the roots twisted, and the wood knew what was asked of it: to loop, to elevate, to trap. The vegetation began to grow with an ordered greed, weaving itself into an unpredictable labyrinth that separated the ONI from each other. It was a spectacle of cruel beauty—hedges that sprang up, thickets that swallowed silhouettes.
—"Eco-Energetic Grasp," Kaelios thought, almost silent.
The roots leaped, closed hands, squeezed limbs. The ONI cried out, their energies drawn, drained by the earth. Kaelios felt the flow return to the sylva, an inversion of theft that made the air pale. He slipped through the mesh, approached, activating the Eye of Truth: mana filaments became visible, currents of force that indicated who was isolated, who was strong, who was wounded.
He spotted an individual cut off from the group: a sentinel, isolated at a distance. Kaelios chose the moment, breathed slowly, struck in silence. The Primal Spiritual Blade flashed, green and sharp. The ONI was cleaved before it had time to call out.
Somewhere, the alarm was raised. The contingent leader, a colossus bearing marks of authority, stood up and understood that the action was not the work of an ordinary mind. He made a gesture, gathered what remained of his group, and, with the iron grip of a man who accepts nothing, kept the griffin as a hostage.
Kaelios had not come out. He had not been seen. His blade was still vibrating from the strike. He had almost delivered the fatal blow to the leader, but his attack, too hasty, had missed its center. A spark, a breath, and reality shifted: one of the ONI holding the griffin let out a warning cry, and Kaelios's presence was revealed by the effect of the miss.
The leader pivoted and saw the movement. His voice, hoarse, split the air.
—"So… you are responsible for all this?" he said, as if the confirmation were a delight.
Kaelios, still half-hidden, let the blade nestle in the air between them like a measured promise.
—"Let go of that creature," Kaelios said in a cold voice. "It has done nothing to you. Leave this forest, or face someone your own size."
A sneer replied. One of the standing ONI taunted:
—"Do you even know who we came with?"
—"Yes, you're attacking the great Seg—" another began, the name almost on his tongue.
The leader, furious at what he judged to be a betrayal of silence, slapped the protester.
—"Shut up!" he roared. "This must remain a secret. A bunch of mindless idiots."
Then, as if his anger was a key that unlocked the world, he snapped his fingers. A word emerged, ancient and hard:
—"Invertio."
Instantly, the forest reset; the plant labyrinth came undone, the roots receded, as if time had been wound back one notch. Kaelios gritted his teeth.
—"Shit."
The order fell amidst the chaos. The leader screamed his commands aloud:
—"You! Stay here with the creature! The others, surround her and use the Dark Link!"
The ONI obeyed. The earth cracked and hands of shadow sprang out, black snakes that grabbed, immobilized, and threatened. Kaelios leaped to avoid one of the grips, but a shadow ball—a dense, black mass—struck him and propelled him against a rock. The impact knocked the breath out of him. The world spun.
—"Health status: 60%," Aeni informed in a mechanical, distant voice.
Kaelios spat a brief, bitter laugh.
—"Thanks for the info," he said, the sarcasm pointed like a spear.
The ONI advanced in number, rebounding off the environment that had just been recomposed. Balls, shadow links, claws—the assault became a downpour again. Kaelios stood up, cut, hurled the Blade again and again; he struck down several opponents, but it wasn't enough. Numbers gave strength to the weak: the power of the mass effect.
He thought, tense, that this was not a battle he would win in a single breath; he was young, still unadapted to some of his resonances, experiencing a new form that demanded to learn. He felt anxiety rise—the technique, the fatigue, the pressure. And as he searched, Aeni's mind suddenly alarmed:
—"Alert: extremely dangerous attack approaching!" the voice pronounced, the distant vibration of a warning.
Kaelios looked up. The sky seemed swallowed by a black mass. The ONI leader, having climbed a stone, stood there, almost floating, holding between his hands an immense shadow ball, a sphere of tenebrous foam that devoured the light of the scarlet Quasar. The valley darkened; the shadow grew like a lid over the day.
—"This is the end for us, Aeni," Kaelios breathed.
3. — The Awakening of Thunder
A voice then cracked in the air, slicing like a clap of thunder: Rapace Éclair (Thunder Raptor)!
A griffin dove from the sky, spiraling like a living spear. Its wings lashed the air; electrical light twisted around its talons. It struck the shadow sphere. The explosion was a tear: a rain of shadow fragments dissipated into smoke and lightning. The impact pushed the ONI back, made the leader stagger, and made the heart of the world beat.
No one cried out in joy. Surprise covered everything. The wave reverberated. Up high, in the air, something—or someone—sensed the energy: Segaru, the Oshira of the Sega, caught the blast, and a smile of interest creased his features.
On the field, a slender body sliced through the dust and appeared between the trees. It was an elf woman, dressed in attire that seemed woven from wind thread and bark, her silvery hair imbued with a light that was neither full nor decided. She did not speak her name. She did not have to. Her entrance was a sentence of steel.
—"Lianes Ardentes (Burning Vines)!" she called out.
The ground obeyed like a trained animal. Vines emerged, burning and sharp, clawing the air and wrapping around the ONI as if the mountain had finally decided to punish the intruders. The vines struck, cut, and bound. The ONI fell, unable to break this living weave. The griffin's lightning then rained down, like a concentrated storm.
—"Éclair Fou (Mad Lightning)!" the woman commanded.
The griffin obeyed with a deafening cry. Arcs of lightning sprang out and fell in a geometric rain on the battlefield. The ONI were consumed, smoked into black volutes mingled with sparks. The creature's roar soothed the air; silence fell again, thick, laden with the smells of iron and sap.
The leader, pierced but still animated by desperate rage, had risen and clung to the captive griffin, ready to escape with his prey. He screamed:
—"If you want it back, you'll have to go through me!"
The woman did not back down. She leaped, vines whipping. The leader threw shadow balls, defenses, wave after wave. She danced, writing arcs and cuts in the air. When he invoked a Dark Link to protect his skin, she found the flaw and planted the Griffe du Griffon (Griffin's Claw): a frontal, bestial, pure attack. The leader was torn, shredded, scattered like a puppet brought down.
He vanished into tatters. There was no song for him; only the air regaining its breath. The remaining ONI were annihilated, the echo of their silent shrieks blending into the sound of the wind.
The elf woman then turned to Kaelios. She approached, her steps light, and knelt on the ground. Her gaze, when it met his, was a mixture of steel and compassion.
—"Are you alright?" she simply asked.
Kaelios, covered in scratches, half-lying on a stone, felt the hand of the world close around him; he became aware of the breaks and the adrenaline, but also a strange gratitude. His voice came out hoarse:
—"I… I think so," he replied.
She made a gesture, brushing his cheek, waiting as one waits for a sincere answer from a friend. All around, the battlefield was regaining form: plucked feathers, split roots, a persistent scent of ozone.
Above, more than a simple observer, Segaru remained in the veil; invisible to mortal eyes, he had watched the entire scene. His face, a mask of curiosity and contained anger, lit up with a smile that boded ill.
—"Hmm… " he murmured, barely perceptible, as one whispers an idea in the dark. "I see… so you too are still alive."
—"This is getting interesting."
He then withdrew, evaporating his body in the breath of a black wind, heading somewhere; the destination would remain a mystery until the next chapter. His interest was piqued, his plan was being reformulated in the ether.
The elf woman stood up and looked at the horizon, her fingers still charged with small sparks. She took her time, unhurried, observing Kaelios. In the silence that followed, he felt a thread tie between them: a silent promise that their paths had just been linked for a moment—and perhaps more.
She still did not pronounce her name.
Kaelios, despite the pain still burning in his limbs, placed his hand—awkward, hesitant—on the one that had brushed his cheek. The words were simple, like stones laid to mark a path:
—"Thank you."
She granted him a half-smile, a gesture that was neither cold nor full of affection, but that carried the strength of a blade.
—"Come," she said. "There are wounds that require more than a bandage."
He stood up with her help, feeling his strength return like a torch being relit. Around them, the world seemed to breathe anew. The captive griffin, healed, beat its wings and let out a cry that rolled like a warning: the mountain held its secrets, and they had just revealed one.
Up high, the veil of divine consciousness gently closed around Segaru, who departed without a sound, carrying thoughts as one carries weapons. He was going elsewhere; this departure was not a flight but a march towards a resolution that promised to be heavier still.
The wind carried the ashes of the confrontation. The world continued its work of healing. The elf woman moved away slightly, judging the wounds. She picked up a burned feather and pressed it against Kaelios's chest, as if to seal the encounter without words.
Silence made its law, then the breath of life resumed, more discreet, more durable. The valley gently closed around them, and the mountain, wise and ancient, kept the secrets of a century in its belly.
—"Tomorrow, I will leave," Kaelios thought, looking at the woman whose name he still ignored. "The griffins would exist. There might be hope. There were voices to rally."
—"What is certain," he told himself, "is that the road will not be simple. But it had just opened."
End of Chapter 10.