King Marcus sat on the edge of his throne, his soaked right palm hidden inside a thick cloth. The room was dark despite the mid-morning sun outside. A thin beam of light pushed through the wooden slats in the palace window, landing right across the carved face of a lion on the wall. The air inside was thick, not just with heat, but with worry. Too many signs had come. Too many whispers. Kinamis was changing, and the king knew he was no longer in control.
Harlem, the spiritual guide, stood before him. He had not eaten in three days, his eyes sunken, his voice dry but sure.
"Your Majesty, the time has come. You must go to the hill of burnt trees. The one who sees, he is waiting."
The king tightened his left fist. "The Sorcerer? That man is feared across four lands. They say he eats the souls of kings."
Harlem's eyes did not waver. "They also say he speaks only truth."
The king looked down at his palm. The sweat had soaked through again. "And what if he speaks death?"
"Then it is death you must hear."
That evening, the king rode out of Kinamis with a few guards and Harlem beside him. The road to the hill was rough and overgrown. Few people dared walk it, especially after dark. But this was no ordinary time. Thunder rumbled far off though the skies were clear. The horses trembled nervously, their hooves unsure on the dry ground.
An hour into the journey, the wind picked up. Harlem pulled his robe tighter around him. The trees shook violently as though unseen hands passed through them. The air grew cold, then hot, then cold again.
A thick mist rolled in from nowhere, hiding the road completely. The king ordered the group to stop. They could barely see each other.
"This is Osungho," Harlem whispered. "He does not want you to go."
The king's horse neighed and pulled back. One of the guards shouted in surprise, his horse had bucked him off and bolted into the fog. Moments later, they heard the sound of hooves falling into water. But there was no river nearby.
When they passed a lone tree. From its branches hung dozens of dead birds. Black feathers, limp necks, eyes open.
"Keep moving," the king ordered, though his voice was shaking.
Harlem murmured chants under his breath. "We are not welcome. But we must go keep going."
They pressed on through the strange wind and sounds. Insects buzzed where they shouldn't. The sky stayed oddly lit, neither day nor night.
Suddenly, a guard ahead let out a scream.
His face had turned pale. His eyes rolled up, and he collapsed. The others gathered around. He was alive, but unmoving, breathing fast.
The king knelt beside him. "What happened?"
The guard's lips moved. He whispered something. Harlem leaned in to listen.
"He said he saw a stone. A black stone with fire inside it. And a voice called out: Turn back, or your name will be smoke."
The king stood slowly, heart pounding. "Let's move on." The king said.
They had barely passed the old thicket that guarded the eastern grove when the forest floor began to tremble faintly under their horses. At first, it was subtle, like a shiver in the earth's skin. But then came the rustling, dry and sharp, growing louder beneath their feet like cracking bones.
A piercing cry came from the rear. "Termites! They're everywhere!"
Before anyone could react, the ground seemed to erupt in motion. A thick wave of brown, biting termites burst upward from the soil, swarming the king's guards like a curse with wings. These were no ordinary insects. They moved with direction, with intent. Straight for the men. Straight for the king.
They poured over boots, into collars, under helmets. One of the guards dropped his spear and began spinning in circles, screaming and slapping at his head. Another clawed at his chest where the insects had wormed beneath his tunic. Horses neighed and backed away, but not a single termite touched them.
King Marcus tried to stay calm, but the creatures found him too. His right hand, already soaked with the cursed sweat that had not stopped for days, was suddenly crawling with them. He swung his robe like a whip, shouting, but the insects clung, biting, burrowing, until blood mixed with sweat.
And then, just like that, the termites vanished.
One moment they were everywhere, the next, they sank back into the earth like water into sand. No one spoke. The soldiers stood panting, their skin marked with red bites, their eyes wide with fear.
"The earth watches us," Harlem murmured, brushing crushed insects from his robe.
King Marcus looked down at his palm, swollen and dripping. The sweat hadn't stopped. He wiped it with his sash. But some of it fell to the earth.
And something changed. They continued on in shaken silence, but trouble followed close behind. By the time the sun reached its steepest tilt, the wind came. First as a breeze. Then a restless whirling. Then a howl.
It wasn't natural. The wind didn't blow in one direction. It spun. Around them.
Forward movement stopped. The trees bent and cracked around them, branches clawing the air. Horses shrieked. A canvas tent was torn from its poles and spun into the sky like a toy. The wind didn't pass, it remained. It trapped them like prey in a hunter's snare.
Men shouted, but their voices were lost in the roar. Dust filled their eyes. A soldier's sword was flung from his hand. Water pots shattered. For hours, they were held in place, no step forward, no retreat back.
And through it all, the king stood at the center, his linen-wrapped palm now bleeding through the cloth. His right hand trembled, and the cursed sweat poured freely down his wrist.
He sank to one knee. Harlem turned, eyes frantic. "We must pray."
But Marcus said nothing. Instead, he tore the cloth from his hand. The sweat glistened dark red now, thicker than before. One drop slid from his palm, fell to the dirt, and sizzled.
The earth hissed where the drop landed. And then silence. The wind stopped. Just like that. The dust fell. The trees stood still. The horses calmed. The world went quiet again, too quiet.
Everyone stood frozen. The spot where the king's sweat had hit the ground was still damp, and at its center, a red mark had formed, no longer water, no longer sweat but blood.
Harlem knelt beside the king, whispering. "Osungho does not want you to go forward." Marcus's chest heaved. His palm throbbed. But his eyes were clear.
"Then we go anyway."
They mounted again, and the rest of the path stretched before them, heavy, silent, waiting.
By the time they reached the edge of the hill of burnt trees, they were fewer, two guards had returned to Kinamis, their fear too strong. The air around the hill smelled like ash and something older, like forgotten things that had never fully died.
A small hut stood near the foot of the hill, surrounded by grey stones. Smoke rose from its chimney, though there was no firewood in sight.
"He knows you've come," Harlem said.
They approached the hut slowly. As they neared, the door creaked open by itself. Inside, it was dark and cool. The walls were covered with markings, spirals, eyes, things that looked like human shapes melting into the ground.
And there, in the corner, sat the Sorcerer.
He was old, though not weak. His eyes were bright like glass, his skin like tree bark. His hair hung in long cords, silver and black.
He looked at the king but said nothing for a long time.
Finally, he spoke. His voice was deep and smooth, like water flowing through stone.
"The king of Kinamis has come late."
Marcus bowed slightly. "I did not know where to find you."
The Sorcerer laughed. It sounded like wind moving through dry leaves.
"The one you seek is already with you. He walks among your people. He breathes your air. And he waits."
"Osungho," the king said. "Is he a god? A curse?"
The Sorcerer tilted his head. "He was buried for a reason. Men should not dig where gods are meant to sleep."
"Then what does he want?"
"Silence. Worship. Fear. He was never a giver. Only a taker."
The king stepped forward. "My people are falling sick. Crops are dying. Children now speak in languages we don't understand. My daughter, was chosen to bleed early, a sign that time is broken." The king said.
Marcus felt his heart tighten. "Then what must I do?"
The Sorcerer looked past him, at Harlem. "Your priest already knows."
Harlem did not look surprised. He bowed his head.
The Sorcerer continued. "There is one among you who can carry the silence back to its bed. A boy. He listens to the wind. He sees without looking."
"Iboro," Harlem whispered.
The Sorcerer nodded. "He is the thread. Do not let it snap."
Marcus raised his voice, more desperate than ever. "But why me? Why my people?"
The Sorcerer stood. His shadow grew tall and strange.
"Because the earth remembers. You built on forgotten bones. The stone you found". "You cannot move what roots itself in blood."
The hut trembled slightly. The markings on the walls glowed faintly. The Sorcerer placed his hand on the king's forehead.
In that moment, Marcus saw a vision: fire swallowing Kinamis, people running, shadows crawling on the walls, the black stone rising above the town like a tower.
Then it was gone. He stumbled back.
"You saw it," the Sorcerer said. "You cannot unsee."
Outside, the sky had darkened. Clouds swirled. The wind howled louder.
"Go now," the Sorcerer said. "While there is still breath in the trees."
The king turned to Harlem. "We must return. Prepare the boy."
As they rode back, the signs did not stop. A snake crossed their path, then exploded into dust. A child's laughter echoed from the trees with no child in sight. The road changed directions, winding in circles before letting them through.
By the time Kinamis came into view, night had fallen.
And the black stone, deep in its crate behind locked doors, pulsed again.
The king knew there was no turning back now.
Osungho had awoken.