The sun rose like it always did — with warmth, silence, and the illusion that the world was still whole.
And somehow, it was.
By the time the rest of the unit woke up, it was as if nothing had happened. No panic. No suspicion. No whisper of the chaos that had unfolded the night before. Even the birds sounded too confident in their song, like they too had been spared the memory of Prince Lu.
I wanted it this way.
To my left, Tor adjusted his cloak, yawning quietly. No one questioned his slower movements. No one questioned mine. I suppose a calm silence was more convenient for everyone. If the world chooses to ignore a nightmare, who am I to confront it with the truth?
But the real mystery wasn't that no one else knew what had happened.
The mystery was how no one else knew.
Akenzua had collapsed. I'd nearly passed out. Tor was practically turned into a wall decoration. And yet — not a single villager stirred. No frightened Chief, no patrolling guard, not even a curious child sneaking around to eavesdrop.
That sort of silence didn't happen naturally. It was manufactured. Induced.
Prince Lu had blanketed this village in slumber. And I didn't know if I should be relieved or alarmed that he had the power to do so… and chose not to use it lethally.
Tor and I waking up at all? Another unanswered question.
But one step at a time.
After resting for a few hours, I'd woken Simi before dawn. She was disoriented at first, probably wondering why I looked like I got thrown into a forest fire. But once I explained, she adjusted quickly. That's why I like working with her — no theatrics, no dumb questions. Just solutions.
She was already aware of Akenzua's nature, and that saved time.
With her help, she patched up the three of us—Tor, Akenzua, and myself.
Divine healing is efficient—when conditions are ideal. Our essence accelerates recovery, sure. But wounds like those? Inflicted by a Fallen of that level? Healing on our own would take time—time we didn't have. Fortunately, with Simi's help, we didn't need it. What would've taken hours—maybe days—was reduced to something manageable.
Thanks to her skill—and my quick decision to wake her—we were patched up cleanly before sunrise. No scars, no bandages, no visible sign that we had been brutalized the night before.
And so when the rest of the unit woke up, no one suspected a thing.
Not a whisper about Prince Lu. Not a glance of concern. As far as they were concerned, nothing had happened.
The plan was to leave the village at midmorning. There was no reason to stay longer, and frankly, I had no interest in answering questions I didn't plan on being asked. But before we left, Major Adeshola and I paid one last visit to the palace.
I wanted to see the Chief for myself.
There was a chance — however small — that he'd sensed something off. A tension in the air, a wrinkle in his sleep. Anything.
But when we entered the palace…
He greeted us with a wide smile. Said he'd slept like a baby. Claimed he was filled with enough energy to run the village twice over.
I watched him closely. Checked his body language. Measured his words.
Not an ounce of suspicion.
Nothing.
He offered us supplies — food, medicine, travel kits. Adeshola tried to be polite and turn them down, but the Chief insisted, and after a short back-and-forth, we accepted a few essentials. Light enough to carry, helpful enough to be worth the burden.
I was content with that.
We gathered at the village's east gate. Everyone accounted for, everyone unaware. That was when Yisa Ndako appeared.
Yisa Ndaka approached in a hurry—too hurried for someone of her status. A Madarikan followed behind her, along with what looked like a maid. Her outfit was simple, modest—nothing like the decorative silks she wore at the palace. It felt thrown together, like she'd grabbed the first thing within reach just to catch us before we left.
Apparently, she had been waiting for the right moment to speak with Tor. Unfortunately for her, the mysterious sleep that drowned the village had robbed her of that chance. So now, here she was—making her final move.
Tor didn't expect it. That much was obvious. His posture shifted instantly, hand behind his neck, a bashful grin tugging at the corner of his mouth. He looked like someone trying—and failing—to play it cool. The poor fool didn't realize the Chief's daughter had been watching him since last night.
She requested a moment alone with him. I had no objections. It was early, and we had a bit of time to spare before setting out. I gave him a nod, and the two of them stepped off to the side.
Of course, distance meant little to us.
We were Divines. Enhanced sight. Sharpened hearing. Trying to hold a private conversation in front of a group like ours was almost endearing in its futility.
The only one who wouldn't have been able to eavesdrop was Akenzua—but from his expression, he couldn't care less. He stood a short distance away, arms folded, gaze fixed on the earth like he was reading it for answers. I knew that look. He hadn't moved past last night's events. Not even close.
And honestly? I didn't blame him.
Listening in on Tor and Yisa's conversation.
She told him plainly—almost shyly—that she liked him. That she hoped he could stay longer in Ajiboye. Get to know each other. Spend time. Build... something, maybe a relationship. She asked when he might return, as if this meeting were the start of a story yet to unfold.
I wasn't surprised in the slightest.
Adeshola and her unit might've raised a brow. But for Simi and me? This was routine.
Tor had a presence. A face sculpted for attention and a demeanor that only made it worse—charismatic, reliable, deadly with the cinders. The kind of man who didn't chase affection, and thus, attracted it effortlessly. Women gravitated toward him like stars to a black hole. Yisa was just the latest in a long line.
But what most failed to see—and what made Tor, Tor—was that he had no interest in romantic pursuits. None. Not because he disliked admiration. No, he appreciated being seen. He valued recognition. Praise. But only when it aligned with his goal: becoming a divine legend.
Not a local hero. Not a husband to a village chief's daughter.
A name written into the books of legacy.
That's what I always respected about him. That obsessive drive. It was the kind of purpose that broke most men, but for Tor, it built him—stone by stone. A few more contracts and he'd make Upper Rank. Deservedly so.
He responded to Yisa with the same honesty he brought to combat: no hesitation, no softness, just clarity.
He told her he wasn't available. That his path didn't include detours like romance. But he did offer her a kindness—if ever there came a time when he needed rest, Ajiboye would be the first place he'd visit.
Not a promise.
But enough to keep the moment from being cruel.
Yisa clearly hadn't expected rejection. She held herself together with quiet grace, nodded, then leaned in and kissed his cheek. A farewell gift wrapped in composure. And with that, she turned and departed with her maid and the Madarikan escort in tow.
Tor walked back toward us like a man who'd just walked through a storm and came out dry. But Ajani—grinning wide on his Ashatari—wasn't about to let it slide.
Tor glanced at him once.
Just once.
That look promised violence if even a syllable escaped Ajani's lips. The kind of warning you don't need to hear twice.
Ajani nodded, wisely keeping his mouth shut—but the grin stayed.
We all mounted our Ashataris.
Everything that needed doing in Ajiboye had been done.
With the village behind us and the road ahead clear, we departed—resuming our journey to the Central Confluence.
***
The road out of Ajiboye was long, but not unfamiliar. After two days on horseback, the terrain had shifted. The thick, lowland trees began to give way to rising earth, and ahead, the shadow of Mount Sánfá stretched across the dusk like a final gate. By tomorrow, we'd reach the Central Confluence. But before then—I needed answers.
The kind of answers you don't discuss in the presence of half-curious subordinates or well-meaning peers.
There was something that had been gnawing at me ever since that night. And I knew if I waited until we reached the Confluence, I might not get the chance to speak freely.
So I made my decision.
When we arrived at the base of Mount Sánfá, I spoke to Major Adeshola. I told her I intended to conduct an Izu with Master Abiodun—that it was necessary before we reached the capital.
Her expression tightened, but only slightly. "An Izu? Now?" she asked. "Nothing... concerning has happened. Not that I'm aware of."
She wasn't accusing me. Just thinking out loud. She had a habit of probing with innocent questions that held weight beneath them.
I kept my tone even. "Just a final update before we arrive. In case there's anything we should know going in."
She didn't press. I could see the gears turning behind her eyes, but she accepted the answer and gave the order for us to set up camp for the evening.
Mount Sánfá was exactly how I remembered it—broad, stoic, and quiet. It wasn't the tallest in the region, but the way it sat against the horizon gave it presence. If the Central Confluence was the brain of this continent, then Sánfá was the neck.
We set up camp at the base.
The others quickly fell into their usual rhythms—tying up the Ashtaris, checking gear, warming preserved food. I found a spot further off, where the ground rose gently and a cluster of boulders gave me just enough elevation to focus.
I took my position on a smooth, sun-dried rock and closed my eyes.
The world dimmed.
Inhale. Stillness.
Exhale. Essence.
Then—transition.
I left the physical world behind and crossed into the divine one. The Izu began.
It didn't take long. Master Abiodun must have sensed the call immediately, because within moments his presence shaped itself in the glowing ether before me.
"Deji," he said, his tone unreadable as always. "How's the journey?"
I got straight to the point. "That's why I called. Something happened two nights ago."
I recounted the entire encounter. Prince Lu. The battle. How Tor and I had been overpowered. How we survived, barely.
And the strangest part: how the rest of the village remained asleep.
When I finished, Master Abiodun was silent for a long moment.
Then, "Prince Lu… that name isn't in any of our Fallen records."
His voice had a note of discomfort I rarely heard. "And if your description is accurate, then even I wouldn't be confident in a direct confrontation. Not alone."
That said enough. He was rarely shaken, and even more rarely humble.
"What troubles me," he continued, "isn't just his strength—it's his choice to walk away. And that he knew about Akenzua."
I nodded. "I don't think he came to take him. If he did, he had more than enough chances. No—he was testing something. Or waiting for something else."
I explained the part about only Tor and I waking up. The timing was too perfect. The conditions, too specific. Which could only mean one thing.
"Someone else woke us," I said. "Whoever they are—they interfered with his plans."
Master Abiodun didn't dismiss the theory.
"If that's true," he said slowly, "then there's more at play than we imagined. Someone else is protecting Akenzua... and they're strong enough to interrupt Prince Lu's interference."
He paused. "Until now, I assumed we were the only ones aware of his identity. But it seems Akenzua's existence echoes louder than we thought."
I agreed. And it made me think.
How many eyes were truly on that boy?
Master Abiodun gave a final warning. "Since you're at mount Sanfa, then you'll be entering the Confluence soon. Its concentration of Divine units should serve as a shield—even beings like Prince Lu wouldn't recklessly cross that line."
I nodded.
Then he asked the question I had expected all along. "What I don't understand is... how did you get him to back off?"
I kept my tone level. "I bluffed."
"You what?"
"I was about to summon a Divine Statue."
There was a pause. Then: "You really do enjoy risking your life, don't you?"
"I figured it was the only shot we had," I said. "If he called it, we'd be dead either way."
Master Abiodun sighed—part exasperation, part respect. "Let's hope you don't have to make such a bluff next time." He replied.
The Izu ended.
I came back to the physical realm. The evening wind of Mount Sánfá was cool against my skin, and the stars were already beginning to claim the sky.
When I rejoined the unit, they were eating quietly. Simi looked up briefly, as if sensing the weight in my expression, but said nothing.
Tor was checking the edge of one of his cinders. Ajani was half-asleep with one eye open, pretending to meditate. Akenzua sat a little further from the fire, his expression unreadable. As usual.
And me?
I was still turning over Master Abiodun's final words in my head.
Another confrontation with Prince Lu would be troublesome.
And this time, bluffing might not be enough.