CHAPTER ONE
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Oya floated high above the ground, surveying the village below. The mortals were busy with their daily tasks, unaware of the storm building in her heart. Their voices had called to her from her dwelling. They had planted their crops, and now they needed the rains she alone controlled to make them grow. The dry season had passed, and she had been summoned. Her people needed her, and she would answer.
She looked down at the cracked earth, thirsty for the gift only she could bestow. Stretching out her hands, she let her àṣẹ—the divine power coursing through her veins—flow. The winds, which had been still moments before, whipped into a frenzy as she called forth the storm. Thick clouds gathered, and soon, rain began to fall.
At first, it was like all the other times she had brought the rains, steady and nourishing. But then, something shifted. The calm rhythm of the rain quickened, turning wild. Lightning split the sky with violent energy, and thunder growled in response. Winds twisted into gales, howling across the land. Panic surged within Oya. This was not what she had intended.
She tried to draw back her rampaging àṣẹ, but it rebelled, growing even wilder. Tornadoes spiraled from the clouds, tearing through the fields, while bolts of lightning ignited fires below. The storm was no longer hers to command.
The destruction a storm like this would cause...
She gritted her teeth, fear threading through her veins. With a loud cry, she forcibly pulled her raging power back into herself. The storm began to quiet. Lightning ceased, and thunder retreated into the distance. The rain slowed until it became a light drizzle.
Exhaustion hit her like a wave. It took all her remaining strength to stay afloat in the sky. When she looked down, her heart shattered. The village below was in ruins. Homes had been torn apart, and the crops she had been summoned to nourish were now scorched and flooded. The fields, once full of promise, lay in smoldering wreckage.
Her powers had never betrayed her like this. Not even in her youth, when she had first learned to harness the winds and the rains. What had gone wrong? Why had her àṣẹ run wild? She couldn't bear to look at the devastation any longer. Shame burned in her chest, and like a coward, she fled, disappearing into the storm-torn sky.
Finally in the stillness of her sanctuary, staring blankly at the swirling winds outside her window. The storm she had unleashed upon the village was a memory burned into her brain, it clung to her like a shadow. She closed her eyes, replaying the moment her power had spiraled out of control, the destruction, the panic, the way her àṣẹ had slipped from her grasp.
The weight of failure hung heavily on her chest.
She was Oya, the bringer of rain, the goddess who wielded the winds with precision and grace. The rains should have been a blessing, a gift to nourish the crops and bring prosperity to the land. Instead, she had rained down devastation, scorched fields, and broken homes. What kind of goddess loses control like that?
Her reflection in the polished stone mirror before her seemed unfamiliar now. Her eyes, once filled with confidence, now held doubt. Why had her àṣẹ betrayed her? It had always obeyed her command, ever since she was young, ever since she had first tasted the exhilaration of controlling the elements.
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She was not her brother.
His voice echoed in her mind, mocking her from the shadows of her past. "You think you're better than I am? We’re both storms, Oya—wild and unyielding. No matter what you tell yourself."
She had always rejected his words, prided herself on her ability to master the chaos within. Sàngó had reveled in his tempestuous nature, letting his power rage uncontrollably. But Oya had disciplined herself, learned to guide her storms with care. She had always believed that made her different. Stronger.
But now... Had he been right all along?
Oya’s fists clenched, her nails digging into her palms. She could still feel the remnants of the storm in her veins, raw and angry, as if it had a will of its own. Why did the winds turn against me? She murmured to herself, her voice breaking the silence of her chamber. What am I if I cannot control them?
The thought was unbearable. Without her command over the winds, what was she? Just a lesser version of Sàngó? A goddess unworthy of her name?
The door to her sanctuary creaked open, but Oya did not turn to see who entered. She knew it was one of her attendants, come to check on her, to offer some empty platitude or feeble comfort. But none of them could understand the depth of her failure.
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from the comfort of his own realm, Esu watched the skies through a swirling mist in his divination tray. A sly smile curled at the edge of his lips. The storm had been beautiful in its chaos—just the beginning of what he had set in motion.
He had barely needed to interfere with Oya's power, just a small nudge to let her own fears unravel her control. She was so terrified of becoming like her brother, so desperate to prove her mastery over the storm, that she had become a volcano ready to erupt. Her downfall had been inevitable.
Esu chuckled softly to himself. How fragile these gods are, so wrapped in their illusions of control. It was laughable, really. They all clung to their roles so desperately, to the order imposed by fate, never realizing that the tapestry of the universe was nothing more than a prison.
But not for long.
Esu’s fingers drummed lightly on the edge of the tray. He had been working tirelessly on the loom of fate, unraveling its threads one by one. It was slow progress—the loom was resilient, resistant to his tampering—but Esu was nothing if not persistent. He had always been patient. Each small tear in the weave, each deviation from the pattern, was a victory. The universe was loosening its grip, inch by inch, thread by thread.
Soon, the tight bonds of fate would be undone.
He peered into the tray again, watching Oya pace restlessly in her sanctuary. How easy it had been to make her stumble. The other gods wouldn’t notice his subtle manipulations—at least, not yet. not wrapped up in their problems. He intended to keep them busy, make them blind to the truth.
But Orunmila wasn’t so easily deceived.
Esu felt a prickling sensation at the back of his mind, like the faint touch of another presence. Orunmila’s sight was sharp, and Esu knew the old seer had likely sensed the disturbances. The wise one always sees too much. Orunmila had been a thorn in his side for centuries, ever watchful, ever guarding the delicate balance of the cosmos.
Esu's smile faded. He couldn’t afford to let Orunmila interfere. The old man was too entrenched in the old ways, too loyal to the order of things. If Orunmila realized what Esu was doing with the loom, there would be no avoiding a confrontation.
Esu's eyes narrowed. I’ll have to keep him distracted.
But for now, he needed help. If he was to succeed in his plans, he couldn’t act alone. There was one other god, perhaps the only one, who was intelligent enough to see the truth of his cause and capable of aiding him. Someone who understood the power of weaving and unraveling, of creation and destruction.
Esu rose from his seat, the faint glow of the divination tray fading as he waved his hand over it. It was time to pay a visit to the Weaver.