CHAPTER 3

Sango paced the throne room, his attendants long gone after sensing his foul mood. His anger was palpable, huffing out of him like steam. The way Ogun had looked at him burned like a physical wound. It was always the same old story between them—a cycle Sango had never managed to escape. He was always the reckless, uncontrollable one, while Ogun played the part of the perfectly balanced god.

The throne room was grand but raw, like a storm frozen in stone. The ceiling arched high above, adorned with carvings of swirling clouds and jagged lightning bolts. Thunder rumbled faintly through the marble walls, as if the room itself hummed with Sango’s restless power. His throne sat on a raised dais—dark, polished wood carved with the symbols of his dominion over lightning and fire.

“I heard about your storm today…”

Sango’s head whipped around at the sound of the voice, but there was no one there. The throne room was empty. But he knew that voice—its languid, calm tone was unmistakable.

Who else could it be but Esu?

“I’m not in the mood for your games, Esu. Leave me be!” Sango shouted, his voice booming.

Usually, his anger was enough to send most people fleeing. But then again, Esu was not most people.

“The story hasn’t changed, has it?” Esu’s voice slithered through the air, completely ignoring Sango’s command. “You cause a mess, and Ogun cleans it up.”

“I said, get out!” Sango erupted, lightning crackling around him.

“Oh, but I’m not even here,” Esu mocked, his voice drifting lazily.

“You know,” Esu continued, “the whole realm’s talking about it. They say you’ve never managed to control your powers. That you’re just a child with more strength than sense.”

The air crackled with tension as Sango gritted his teeth, thunder rumbling in the distance. He knew Esu couldn’t be trusted. The trickster god was likely here to stoke his anger for amusement. But still, the words cut deep.

It hurt more because Sango had once thought Ogun understood him—truly understood him. What a laugh that had turned out to be. To the others, he was just a volatile fool, a god too dangerous for his own good.

No matter how long he’d kept himself in check, their views of him never changed.

Esu, unseen but ever-watchful, smirked. He could see the fire blazing in Sango’s eyes. It never took much to rile him up—just a few well-placed truths and half-truths. With a soft chuckle, Esu decided to leave it at that. Let Sango spiral downwards on his own.

Sango stormed out of the throne room, the crackle of lightning still echoing in his ears. Outside, the rain pounded against the palace walls, a constant reminder of the storm he couldn’t quell within.

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*The rain continued, but it was a softer sound here—muffled by the thick canopy of trees.

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Orunmila moved through the dense foliage, his steps slow but deliberate. The forest gave way to a small clearing, where a modest hut stood alone in the middle. The hut was simple, built from dark wood that blended seamlessly with the surrounding trees. Thin vines crawled over its surface, as though the jungle had partially reclaimed it. The roof was thatched, but sturdy, with wisps of smoke rising from a hole in the center. Outside, strange symbols were etched into the, they glowed faintly in the dim light, like the hidden language of a world few understood.

Sitting in front of the hut was a figure—a spider-like silhouette hunched over a small calabash, smoke curling from his mouth.

Anansi's appearance was as strange and unnerving as his reputation. His thin, wiry frame was draped in loose, weathered cloth, patched in places where it had worn away. His skin was a deep, polished ebony that almost seemed to absorb the light, and his arms were long—unnaturally so, fingers spindly and dexterous, like a spider’s legs. His face was sharp, angular, with hollowed cheekbones and eyes that gleamed darkly, always watching, always calculating. His hair, if it could be called that, was tangled like spider silk, gray and white, woven into a wild mess atop his head. His lips, thin and cracked, curved into a slow, deliberate smile as he inhaled from the calabash.

Orunmila paused at the edge of the clearing, watching silently. Anansi did not acknowledge him. For a few moments, they stood like that—Orunmila watching, the trickster unmoved.

Finally, Orunmila broke the silence.

“Greetings, Anansi.”

The trickster looked up slowly from his calabash, his dark eyes settling on Orunmila.

“Greetings, wise one,” Anansi replied, his hoarse voice crawling through the air as he stood. “What brings you to my humble domain?”

“Something important. Something that could change—”

“The loom, yes?” Anansi cut him off, taking another slow breath of smoke.

Orunmila wasn’t startled. Anansi was one of the few who knew about the cosmic loom, his domain intricately tied to its threads. If something were wrong with it, Anansi would surely sense it.

“Yes,” Orunmila said. “The cosmic loom is unraveling, being pulled apart by something—”

“Someone,” Anansi interrupted again, his voice low and knowing.

Orunmila’s eyes widened. “You know who it is?”

“And you don’t?” Anansi shot back, raising an eyebrow.

“I have some suspicions,” Orunmila admitted. “But if you know, you must tell me.”

. “Think: who dances in chaos? Who thrives in disorder?" Anansi asked?

Orunmila tensed "Esu. It’s him, isn’t it?"

Anansi laughed softly "Who can say? But if a storm brews, would you blame the wind… or the one who whispers to it?

Anansi sighed and leaned back, his movements slow, almost lazy. His long fingers tapped rhythmically against the sides of his calabash. “There are few things I must do, and many things you must do.”

Orunmila frowned. He knew Anansi was deliberately being unhelpful.

“Anansi, you understand why the loom can never be destroyed. You know why the one responsible for this must be stopped,” Orunmila said, his voice urgent, his gaze steady.

Anansi met his eyes, those dark, endless pits staring back at Orunmila’s eyes which seemed to contain all the secrets of the universe. For a moment, there was silence. Anansi saw the burden that weighed this old god.

Burdens that prevented even someone as wise as him from truly seeing.

“I know,” Anansi said softly. “I also know why this must happen.”

“What do you mean?” Orunmila pressed, his voice tight with worry.

“Nothing.” Anansi gave a small smile. “Do what you must, Orunmila. I will help you.”

With that, Anansi returned to his seat, resuming the position he had been in before Orunmila’s arrival.

Orunmila sighed. He wasn’t entirely reassured by Anansi’s words, but at least he had secured the trickster’s help. Turning on his heel, he started back toward the forest.

Anansi watched him go, much as he had watched Esu leave his domain earlier that day. The two were so different—yet so similar. Both believed themselves to be saviors, to be doing the world good.

And in some ways, they were.

But in other ways, they were doing the exact opposite.

There was a storm coming, and it would bring about a rebirth. A changing of the old.

The question was: how many would be ready? And how many, like the old, would be swept away?