Zélie ran back to the heart of Osogbo, the cool river mud squishing between her toes. The stone, smooth and black as polished obsidian, was surprisingly heavy in her pocket, a constant, cool weight against her thigh. It felt less like a rock and more like a sleeping weapon. The air grew stiller as she moved away from the water, the strange, chaotic wind dying down to a mere whisper.
She headed toward the shrine of the Osun-Osogbo Sacred Grove, a place of vibrant sculptures and towering trees that had, until this week, felt like a peaceful sanctuary. Now it felt like a fortress under siege.
The city was asleep, but Mama Tunde’s small, vibrant shop—selling everything from fresh fruit to small, carved figures of the Orishas—was open, a beacon of light in the sleeping market square.
Mama Tunde was a formidable woman whose knowledge of local history and spiritual matters far exceeded her simple shop front suggested. Zélie had come to her many times, seeking advice on herbs or minor ailments. Tonight, she needed answers that weren didn't come in a bottle.
"You look like you've seen the trickster himself, child," Mama Tunde said, her eyes sharp and assessing over her reading glasses. She was sorting through a basket of kola nuts.
Zélie pulled the stone from her pocket and placed it on the counter. The metal heat it gave off seemed to make the very air in the shop crackle.
Mama Tunde stopped sorting the nuts. Her eyes widened slightly, a rare display of surprise. She picked up the stone, her gnarled fingers running over the carved symbol—a simple but potent representation of a sword crossing a hammer.
"This is not from Ayé," the old woman murmured, her voice losing its everyday cadence and taking on a deeper, more resonant tone. "This is Ase made solid."
"The water is the least of our worries." Mama Tunde placed the stone down gently, sliding it back to Zélie. "The gods are restless. Their connection to us is fraying. They lose power because we lose faith, and in losing power, they lose themselves."
"What does that mean for us?" Zélie pressed.
"Chaos," Mama Tunde said simply. "The balance of the world is maintained by the divine order. When the gods start to fall silent, the world falls apart. The Veil Sickness you see in the river, the erratic wind—that is the world crying out as the barriers between realms weaken."
Mama Tunde leaned over the counter, her expression grave. "The fact that this stone, an artifact of Ogun, came to you... it suggests the gods have chosen a messenger. You have the spark, Zélie. I always knew it. You are a Scion."
Zélie blinked. "A scion of whom?"
"Oshun," Mama Tunde said with absolute certainty. "The river called to you. The gold in your eyes, the music you feel in your soul. She has claimed you since birth."
Zélie scoffed, a nervous laugh escaping her. "I'm just Zélie. I make jewelry and help my aunt in the market. I don't have Ase. I don't have powers."
As she said the word "powers," the small oil lamp on the counter flared violently, extinguishing itself with a puff of black smoke. The glass chimney of the lamp cracked neatly down the middle.
Mama Tunde smiled faintly in the sudden dimness provided only by a distant street light. "Denial is a powerful force, child, but not as powerful as destiny. The gods need you to find them, to remind them of their purpose, and to force them to mend the Veil."
Zélie looked down at the Ogun stone. It felt warmer now, almost alive. "How am I supposed to unite a pantheon of notoriously proud, feuding deities who haven't spoken in centuries?"
"With wit, grace, and the Ase of Oshun," Mama Tunde said. "Your first task is simple: the messenger who guides all paths is waiting."
"Eshu? The trickster who likes to cause trouble?"
"He guards the crossroads," Mama Tunde corrected gently. "He determines what paths are open and which are closed. If anyone knows where the forgotten gods have hidden themselves, it is he."
A new sound reached them from outside—the distant wail of a police siren, quickly followed by the snap of thunder from a clear sky. A single drop of rain, thick and heavy, hit the tin roof above them.
"It washed up from the river," Zélie explained quickly. "The river is sick, Mama. The water... it’s wrong."
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