Night no longer felt like absence.
Since Amahle joined them, the dark had gained a voice — soft, ancient, and whispering in languages older than memory. Trees leaned when she passed. The earth sighed beneath her steps. And the spirits, once hidden behind the veil of the unseen, began to follow.
Their journey turned north, toward Nsitu-Mbe, a place spoken of only in riddles and dreams. It was said to be the last resting ground of the First Circle — seven warriors who once sealed away a power that tried to swallow the sun. Now, the seal was weakening.
The Shadow-Born were moving there.
And so were they.
***
The terrain shifted. The cracked, dead plains gave way to marshy forest, thick with vines and ghost-white trees. The group moved carefully — Nnamdi with sword drawn, Ifeanyi's eyes scanning every ripple in the grass, Adanna quiet but ready, staff glowing faintly with life.
Amahle trailed behind, head tilted, listening.
"There are voices here," she murmured.
"What kind?" Nnamdi asked.
"The kind that were never laid to rest."
Suddenly, the air snapped cold.
Ahead, a stone gate, half-sunken in the earth, loomed. Vines coiled through its carvings — spirals, masks, and symbols too old for words. Around it, the ground had turned black.
A warning.
"We're close," Ifeanyi muttered. "I don't like it."
Adanna stepped beside Amahle. "Is this where the spirits are loudest?"
Amahle's eyes glazed for a moment. "No. This is where they scream."
Then came the sound. Not a roar. Not a hiss.
A chant.
Thousands of overlapping voices, whispering in reverse — all in pain.
From the gate poured a new form of Shadow-Born. Twisted even further. No longer resembling beasts or men. These were stitched together from shadow and memory — echoing the faces of the people they had consumed.
One bore a woman's face Nnamdi had seen in a burning village. Another moved like a child, its joints bending too far. Another still wore a mask — a priest's — cracked down the center.
They were slower. But heavier. Older.
"Hold them!" Nnamdi roared, blades flashing.
The group formed a circle.
Ifeanyi struck first, his Machete glowing with borrowed fire — tearing into the first creature with a fury born of grief. Adanna spun her staff in wide arcs, blasting waves of golden healing light that scorched shadows like flame.
But the new-born did not retreat.
They absorbed pain.
One leapt at Adanna — she blocked it, but it left deep gouges on her arm. Nnamdi rushed to defend her, taking two down, but three more emerged from the gate.
They were being overwhelmed.
Amahle stood still, eyes closed.
Then she spoke — not to the living.
To the dead.
Her voice dropped low, vibrating with ancient rhythm.
"Rise, ancestors of root and rain.
Spirits of bark, bone, and blood.
Awaken. Walk with me."
The earth cracked.
From beneath their feet, ghostly figures rose — tall, regal, cloaked in the symbols of old tribes long vanished. Warriors, midwives, kings, children — all made of glowing ash and white flame.
They moved without speaking — intercepting the Shadow-Born, pressing back the tide.
Amahle walked among them untouched, her eyes filled with tears and power.
"The dead have not forgotten," she whispered.
With renewed strength, Nnamdi and Ifeanyi pushed forward. Adanna raised her staff and poured her healing into the ancestral spirits, their forms flaring brighter with each wave.
The Shadow-Born shrieked — not from pain, but from recognition.
They remembered those they had consumed.
And they feared them.
With a final chant, Amahle lifted both hands. The trees bowed. The spirits surged.
And the gate — collapsed, crushed beneath the will of the dead.
***
When silence returned, the ground was soaked in ash. The spirits faded, returning to their slumber. The group stood breathing heavily, watching the ruins of the gate.
Amahle fell to her knees, exhausted. Adanna helped her up.
"You truly walk between worlds," she said.
Amahle only nodded. "The spirits... they want peace. But they'll fight again if they must."
Nnamdi looked toward the north, jaw clenched. "We'll need them."
Ifeanyi cleaned his blade. "And each other."
They walked on, four now. A warrior of rage, a hunter of precision, a healer of divine blood, and a death-walker — bound not by fate, but by choice.
The gods stirred again.
And far to the north, something woke in the dark.