The capital’s training yard stretched beneath clouds that hung heavy and bright, their light spilling over cracked stone like spilled milk, softening the jagged black spires that clawed into the sky. Dust rose in lazy spirals, settling on Kente’s patched tunic—tan fabric streaked with orange and blue, its frayed edges catching the grit of Old Brass he couldn’t shake from his lungs. He knelt there, knees pressing into the earth, fingers digging into the stone, feeling its juju hum—a deep vibration that skipped steps, bending reality into faint, shimmering spirals. His chest ached, the pendant Zuri had given him warm against his skin, its hum a quiet sob beneath his ribs, syncing with the bead tied there, Umvelina’s daughter stirring with a pulse he couldn’t name.
Kente’s eyes stung, tears blurring the dust into a haze. He saw Zuri—red eyes cold, voice venomous in the plaza, his twin pendant swinging like a noose. “Master’s got plans—juju’s trash, blood’s king.” The words cut deeper than any Harvester claw, slicing through the orphanage memories flooding back: mud-brick walls, damp straw, Zuri’s small hands crafting their pendants under a threadbare blanket. “So we’ll always find each other,” Zuri had whispered, grin wild and sure, fetching trinkets from Harvester masters just to see Kente smile. Now, Zuri was chained in the capital’s prison, twisted by those pale shadows, and Kente’s chest tightened, a sob catching in his throat he wouldn’t let escape.
A soft crunch of boots broke his reverie—Chioma’s gold eyes glinted through the dust, her patched tunic gray and torn, hands steady but trembling at her sides. “You’re breaking, Kente,” she said, voice low, rough with worry, fingers brushing the stone as if testing its hum. “What’s eating you? You’ve been staring at that dirt for hours.”
He looked up, tears streaking through the dust on his cheeks, and saw her flinch—her claws flexing, catching the cloudlight. “Zuri,” he choked out, voice thick, raw. “He’s locked up, Chioma. Red eyes, cold as stone—muttering, pacing like a ghost. I can’t… I can’t leave him there. He gave so much for me, back in the orphanage. Fetched trinkets, made this pendant—” He clutched it, its warmth searing his palm. “Thought my juju—the corrupt idol—was gonna kill me. Tried to save me, and now he’s paying for it.”
This text was taken from Royal Road. Help the author by reading the original version there.
Her eyes softened, gold melting into shadow, and she knelt beside him, claws brushing the dirt. “Old Brass don’t leave its own,” she murmured, voice firm but breaking. “But prison’s tight—Sturmguards won’t let him go easy. What can we do?”
Tamara shuffled closer, his shell flickering dim, crumbs dusting his tunic as he hugged himself, eyes wide and wet. “Saw him last night, near the gates,” he whispered, voice trembling, hands clutching a scrap of metal he’d scavenged. “Red eyes, sharp and cold—muttering things I couldn’t catch. Looked like he was screaming inside, Kente. I wanted to help, but… I froze.”
Kente’s heart twisted, tears falling faster, mixing with the dust into streaks of mud on his cheeks. “He’s not gone,” he said, voice breaking, hands trembling as he gripped the pendant. “Just lost. We can’t let the Harvesters keep him—can’t let him break like that.”
From a broken pillar, Prophet Mirror watched, his cloak brushing the stone, frayed edges catching dust. His dark eyes, steady and deep, caught the spires’ glow, hands still as he spoke, voice quiet, calm like Old Brass’s quiet nights. “Harvesters bend souls,” he said, gaze locked on the horizon, words heavy with truth. “Zuri’s pendant hums their tune now—I felt it in the spires’ vibration last night, cold and sharp. But there’s a way. Miss Wolo might help—she’s elite, daughter to the Priestess. Her juju could sway the capital’s chains.”
Kente’s head snapped up, tears drying on his cheeks, the bead at his ribs pulsing warm, Umvelina’s daughter weaving a hum into his bones. “Miss Wolo?” he asked, voice steadying, hope flickering like a candle in Old Brass’s dark. “She’d do that—for Zuri?”
Prophet nodded, cloak rustling soft. “Her volcano hums Old Brass’s fire—her mother’s legacy could unlock prison seals. But it’s risky. The capital fears Harvester ties, and someone else might move first—General Kaelon, they whisper. Ruthless, juju-obsessed, like a shadow with too many eyes. He’d want Zuri’s secrets too.”
Chioma’s claws scraped the stone, her growl deepening, voice rough with resolve. “Then we talk to her. Kaelon won’t touch Zuri—not while Old Brass stands.”
Kente stood, dust falling from his tunic, tears giving way to a quiet fire in his chest. The pendant pulsed, Zuri’s soul a lifeline he couldn’t let go, and the bead hummed, guiding him toward a path he hadn’t seen. He pictured Zuri—red eyes shadowed, chains clinking in some cold cell, muttering prayers to a past they’d shared. Kente’s heart ached, but his steps steadied, the yard’s juju hum bending reality slow—dust spiraling upward, runes flickering faint, tying him to Old Brass’s heart, to the capital’s weight, to a friend he’d fight worlds to save.
He turned toward the spires, their glow dimming as dusk bled into the sky, the whispers of Old Brass coiling tight around him—Zuri’s red eyes, Nia’s sharp bite, Jomo’s wild cackle, all threading toward a battle he couldn’t escape, but now, wouldn’t run from.