Bound by ancestry - Chapter 10: Chapter 10
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The sun rose behind them, casting golden light over the road they now traveled. Adaeze led the way, her staff humming faintly with every step. Chidubem walked beside her, the pendant tucked beneath his shirt, warm against his heart. Behind them, the small band of oath-keepers moved in silence— not by family, but by purpose.
Their path led them beyond the familiar red sands of Umuguma, into dense forests and past crumbling colonial outposts where vines had swallowed stone and history alike. In each abandoned shrine they passed, they paused to kneel, to whisper prayers, to stir forgotten echoes back to life.
By the third day, they reached the edge of Orlu. The town buzzed with life—market stalls bursting with goods, children weaving through narrow alleys, loudspeakers blasting political promises. But beneath it all, something felt off.
“Do you hear that?” Adaeze asked.
Chidubem strained his ears. “No drums. No birds.”
“Exactly.”
They stayed the night in a humble guesthouse near the river. The owner, a thin woman with a faded wrapper and tired eyes, spoke little but watched them closely.
“You’re from Umuguma,” she finally said, setting down their yams.
“Yes,” Adaeze replied. “We’re passing through.”
The woman hesitated, then leaned closer. “If you hear singing at night, don’t answer. No matter how sweet it sounds.”
Adaeze exchanged a glance with Chidubem.
That night, the singing came.
Soft. Melodic. Heartbreaking.
It floated through the cracks of the windows like mist. A child’s voice. Then two. Then a chorus.
Adaeze gripped the staff. Chidubem held the seal. No one moved.
The singing grew louder. Closer. Like it was inside the room. The air turned cold. The walls darkened. Shadows began to crawl.
Then a light burst from Adaeze’s staff, searing through the darkness. The song stopped. The shadows shrieked and scattered. Outside, villagers woke with screams, some covered in ash, some trembling, some weeping without knowing why.
By morning, the town was different. The market stayed closed. The rivers ran slower. The woman from the guesthouse packed their food without speaking.
“There’s an old shrine in the forest to the east,” she said. “No one goes there anymore. Not since the children vanished.”
The Circle followed her directions.
The shrine stood buried beneath thorns and silence. At its center, a stone altar cracked in half. On it, the symbol of the Obiri—half spiral, half claw.
Chidubem knelt before it. “They’ve passed through here.”
Adaeze touched the stone and winced. Visions struck her—faces with no eyes, songs sung in sorrow, children led into the trees.
“They're trying to bind again. To forge their own pact.”
Uzochi appeared, his voice echoing from the shadows of the trees.
“They feed on forgotten places. We must awaken them all.”
The Circle lit the fire. Sang the songs. Carved the true spirals into stone. They cleansed the shrine with salt, ash, and tears.
And the forest sighed.
By dusk, the birds returned. The air lightened. The shadows shrank back.
The people of Orlu came to the shrine that night, many drawn by dreams they did not understand. Adaeze stood before them, staff raised.
“We are not saviors. We are memory. The land does not ask for kings, only keepers.”
Chidubem added, “This world will not heal with silence. Speak the names of your ancestors. Call the stories back.”
One by one, they did.
And far away, in caves where the last of the Obiri plotted, a crack split the stone altar they had been building.
Their path led them beyond the familiar red sands of Umuguma, into dense forests and past crumbling colonial outposts where vines had swallowed stone and history alike. In each abandoned shrine they passed, they paused to kneel, to whisper prayers, to stir forgotten echoes back to life.
By the third day, they reached the edge of Orlu. The town buzzed with life—market stalls bursting with goods, children weaving through narrow alleys, loudspeakers blasting political promises. But beneath it all, something felt off.
“Do you hear that?” Adaeze asked.
Chidubem strained his ears. “No drums. No birds.”
“Exactly.”
They stayed the night in a humble guesthouse near the river. The owner, a thin woman with a faded wrapper and tired eyes, spoke little but watched them closely.
“You’re from Umuguma,” she finally said, setting down their yams.
“Yes,” Adaeze replied. “We’re passing through.”
The woman hesitated, then leaned closer. “If you hear singing at night, don’t answer. No matter how sweet it sounds.”
Adaeze exchanged a glance with Chidubem.
That night, the singing came.
Soft. Melodic. Heartbreaking.
It floated through the cracks of the windows like mist. A child’s voice. Then two. Then a chorus.
Adaeze gripped the staff. Chidubem held the seal. No one moved.
The singing grew louder. Closer. Like it was inside the room. The air turned cold. The walls darkened. Shadows began to crawl.
Then a light burst from Adaeze’s staff, searing through the darkness. The song stopped. The shadows shrieked and scattered. Outside, villagers woke with screams, some covered in ash, some trembling, some weeping without knowing why.
By morning, the town was different. The market stayed closed. The rivers ran slower. The woman from the guesthouse packed their food without speaking.
“There’s an old shrine in the forest to the east,” she said. “No one goes there anymore. Not since the children vanished.”
The Circle followed her directions.
The shrine stood buried beneath thorns and silence. At its center, a stone altar cracked in half. On it, the symbol of the Obiri—half spiral, half claw.
Chidubem knelt before it. “They’ve passed through here.”
Adaeze touched the stone and winced. Visions struck her—faces with no eyes, songs sung in sorrow, children led into the trees.
“They're trying to bind again. To forge their own pact.”
Uzochi appeared, his voice echoing from the shadows of the trees.
“They feed on forgotten places. We must awaken them all.”
The Circle lit the fire. Sang the songs. Carved the true spirals into stone. They cleansed the shrine with salt, ash, and tears.
And the forest sighed.
By dusk, the birds returned. The air lightened. The shadows shrank back.
The people of Orlu came to the shrine that night, many drawn by dreams they did not understand. Adaeze stood before them, staff raised.
“We are not saviors. We are memory. The land does not ask for kings, only keepers.”
Chidubem added, “This world will not heal with silence. Speak the names of your ancestors. Call the stories back.”
One by one, they did.
And far away, in caves where the last of the Obiri plotted, a crack split the stone altar they had been building.
End of Bound by ancestry Chapter 10. Continue reading Chapter 11 or return to Bound by ancestry book page.