The gods do not always interfere. They watch — from sky-thrones veiled in storm and starlight, from rivers thick with memory, from winds that remember names long buried. But sometimes, when men do the work of giants with mortal hands, the gods lean in.
And so, they watched Nnamdi and Ifeanyi.
Two mortals with scarred skin and steel resolve. Survivors of the Dead Forest. Protectors of the broken. Storytellers in villages where grief had grown like weeds. Not chosen, not divine — yet they moved like those who bore the breath of ancestors in their chests.
In the court of *Orun*, where the Orishas gathered, one god stood in silence: *Obaluaye*, the Orisha of healing, disease, and fate. He held in his hand a bowl of burning herbs, and in its smoke, the faces of Nnamdi and Ifeanyi shimmered.
"They are not gods" said Ogun.
"No," Obaluaye replied. "But they are becoming legend."
And so he whispered to his daughter: *Adanna*, child of healing and fire, marked with the sign of the serpent and the balm.
"Go," he told her. "Not to guide, but to walk beside. And when the time comes… let your hands heal what their blades cannot."
***
They met her on the edge of a dry riverbed, beneath the leaning bones of a ruined bridge. She wore a cloak of orange and gold, her hair braided with cowries and copper. In one hand, a staff of whitewood. In the other, a satchel that smelled of crushed leaves and smoked bark.
Ifeanyi raised his Machete when he saw her.
Nnamdi narrowed his eyes. "You lost, woman?"
She smiled gently. "Not lost. Sent."
"By who?"
"By the gods," she said, as if it were the most natural thing in the world.
They didn't believe her — not then. But they let her walk with them. She treated their wounds without question, stilled the nightmares that followed them from the Dead Forest, and spoke in calm tones that reminded them of home before it fell.
Adanna never claimed power. But the earth seemed to soften under her steps, and animals never fled her presence. She hummed songs that made the wind pause to listen. Even Ifeanyi, who trusted no one, began to hand her his weapons to bless before battle.
***
The three moved eastward, toward the stone-carved hills of *Udi-Koru*, where survivors whispered of a new shadow — one different from those they had seen before. Bigger. Hungrier. Gathering.
One night, as the moon wore a crown of red, they arrived at a clearing littered with bones.
The air was wrong. Thick. Humming like a song sung backward.
And then they came.
*The Shadow-Born.*
But not the ones Nnamdi and Ifeanyi had fought before.
These were changed.
Taller. Smarter. Wearing the shapes of fallen men. Eyes burning not with hunger, but with memory.
One spoke.
"You have killed our kin," it said, voice like shattering mirrors.
"We'll do worse," Nnamdi said, drawing his blades.
Ifeanyi stepped forward, planting his Machete into the earth. "Come then. Let's see if shadows bleed."
Adanna stood between them, staff glowing faintly.
"They don't want peace," she said.
"They'll get fire," Nnamdi growled.
And so the three prepared.
Two mortals forged in flame and loss. One daughter of divinity, born to mend what others break.
The gods watched again — no longer silent.
Because when mortals rise beyond fate, even the heavens must choose a side.