They did not leave the church immediately.
Not because they wanted to stay, but because fear has a way of tying the legs together. Outside, the night had come too fast, like it had been waiting for permission. The moon hung low and red, and the wind smelled of wet soil and old rot.
Chukwuemeka sat against the wall, breathing slowly, forcing pain to behave. Sadiq sat opposite him, silent now. The bravado from earlier had drained away, leaving only a boy who had seen too much in too short a time.
Between them, the cracked floor pulsed once.
Then went still.
The tree was listening, but it was no longer angry.
That frightened Chukwuemeka more than the shaking ever had.
"When it goes quiet like this," he said softly, "it's remembering."
Sadiq frowned. "Remembering what?"
"Everything," Chukwuemeka replied. "The people who bound it. The ones who fed it. The ones who lied to themselves and called it protection."
The boy swallowed.
"You've seen this before?"
Chukwuemeka nodded.
"When I was younger, my grandmother used to talk in her sleep," he said. "She would beg. Cry. Say names I didn't know. I thought it was sickness. Later, I realized she was remembering the tree."
He paused, then added, "She helped plant it."
Sadiq's eyes widened.
"You never said that."
"I never wanted to," Chukwuemeka answered. "Some truths don't want air."
The church door creaked as a gust of wind pushed it open. Outside, the village lay half-ruined. Houses leaned like tired men. Footprints ended suddenly in the dirt, dragged away by something that did not walk.
Sadiq stood.
"We should go," he said.
Chukwuemeka nodded. "Before it changes its mind."
They stepped outside carefully.
Every sound felt loud. The crunch of sand. The whisper of leaves. Somewhere far away, something laughed—not a voice, but the sound roots make when they tear through buried wood.
They moved toward the old path that led past the farms, toward the forbidden grove.
The place where the tree stood.
Sadiq hesitated when he saw it.
Even from a distance, it did not look like a tree. Its trunk was too thick, too twisted, as if many bodies had tried to grow in the same space and failed. Its bark was dark, wet-looking, veined like old skin. The branches hung low, heavy, sagging toward the ground like arms that had given up reaching.
And the roots.
They were everywhere.
Some crawled along the surface like snakes frozen in motion. Others disappeared into the earth, swelling the soil around them like buried wounds.
Sadiq felt his chest tighten.
"It's… bigger," he whispered.
Chukwuemeka nodded. "It grows when it's remembered."
They stopped at the edge of the grove.
The air there was wrong. Too still. Too warm. Smelling faintly of blood, though none could be seen.
"This is where I stop," Chukwuemeka said.
Sadiq turned sharply. "What?"
"If I go closer, it will try to take me back," Chukwuemeka explained. "It knows my shape. My fear. My weakness."
"So you just leave me?" Sadiq snapped, fear sharpening his voice.
Chukwuemeka stepped forward despite the pain and gripped the boy's shoulders.
"No," he said firmly. "I teach you here. What you do with it… is your choice."
He took a slow breath.
"First rule," he said. "Never answer it immediately. It will ask questions that sound like kindness."
As if summoned, the ground beneath the tree shifted.
A voice rose, smooth and patient.
Sadiq.
The boy flinched.
You came back, the voice continued. That means you are ready.
Chukwuemeka's grip tightened.
"Don't respond," he whispered.
The tree's bark split slightly, opening like a mouth.
Do you know why you were chosen? it asked.
Sadiq's lips trembled, but he stayed silent.
Because you listen, the voice said. Because you feel the suffering of others. Because you are tired of running.
Chukwuemeka leaned close to Sadiq's ear.
"It flatters before it feeds," he murmured.
The roots crept closer, slow and deliberate.
Come nearer, the voice urged. Let me show you what was hidden from the others.
Images flooded Sadiq's mind without permission.
Villagers dancing around a young sapling. Blood poured into the soil. Children chosen by lot. Promises whispered into the dark. A lie repeated until it became tradition.
Sadiq gasped.
Chukwuemeka saw his face pale.
"What did it show you?" he asked.
"The beginning," Sadiq whispered. "And the lie."
The tree hummed, pleased.
You see now, it said. I was never evil. I was hungry. They made me that way.
Chukwuemeka straightened.
"Second rule," he said loudly, addressing the darkness itself. "It will blame humans for what it chose to become."
The wind rose suddenly, whipping leaves into the air.
Bold words for a broken vessel, the voice snapped.
The ground trembled.
Chukwuemeka felt pain flare through his chest, but he did not back away.
"You don't want him yet," he said calmly. "You're still testing."
Silence.
Then, slowly:
Very well.
The roots withdrew slightly.
Let the boy learn. Let him decide.
The pressure eased.
Sadiq collapsed to his knees, shaking.
Chukwuemeka knelt beside him.
"You felt it, didn't you?" he asked gently.
Sadiq nodded, tears running down his face.
"It doesn't just want a keeper," he said hoarsely. "It wants to be forgiven."
Chukwuemeka closed his eyes.
"That," he said quietly, "is the most dangerous hunger of all."
Far beneath them, the tree waited.
And it was smiling.