Bound by ancestry - Chapter 3: Chapter 3

The sun rose reluctantly over Umuguma, casting long shadows across the sleepy village. A rooster crowed in the distance, and smoke from early morning cooking fires drifted lazily into the sky. But Chidubem and Adaeze were already awake, their minds racing ahead to what awaited them beyond the hills.
They packed light—only what they could carry. Adaeze wrapped the staff again in the cowries and placed it inside a cloth satchel. Chidubem slipped the folded letter back into his pocket, now worn at the edges from constant handling. Neither of them spoke much during the preparations. Words had begun to feel small against the weight of what they had seen.
As they left the compound, Mama Ukamaka watched from the doorway. She said nothing, only made the sign of the cross and whispered a blessing beneath her breath.
They took the eastern path through the farmland, past cassava mounds and yam barns, toward the distant outline of Amaorie—a forgotten part of the land where only the brave or the mad wandered. The air changed as they walked. It grew heavier, like stepping into a memory that didn’t want to be remembered.
The shrine itself stood in a clearing surrounded by tall iroko trees. Moss-covered stones formed a circle around its entrance. Cracked idols lay toppled, half-swallowed by the earth. Vines clung to the walls as if trying to hold the structure together.
“This place hasn’t been touched in decades,” Chidubem said, brushing leaves off a stone. “It feels... angry.”
“Not angry,” Adaeze corrected. “Abandoned. Spirits grow quiet when forgotten. But some wait. And some remember.”
She approached the central altar, a raised slab with carvings almost worn smooth by time. She placed the staff on it. The earth responded.
A low hum vibrated through the soil. The wind stilled. Then came the whisper.
"You who carry the blood. Do you come to awaken or to destroy?"
Chidubem stepped forward. “To remember. To restore.”
The altar flared with light. And from beneath the slab, a gust of wind erupted, sweeping away dust and debris. A hidden staircase revealed itself.
They looked at each other, then descended.
The air below was colder than the chambers beneath the tree. It smelled of iron and forgotten prayers. The walls here bore different markings, not of warning but of story—figures locked in struggle, guardians standing between realms, children offered not in sacrifice but in promise.
“Amaorie wasn’t just a shrine,” Adaeze whispered. “It was a covenant.”
They entered the heart of the chamber, where a pool of water reflected light that didn’t come from above. In its center floated a pendant—small, circular, etched with the same spiral symbol from the first chamber.
Chidubem reached for it, but the water surged, pulling back.
"Only one who carries both truth and regret may claim the key," a voice echoed.
Adaeze placed her hand on his chest. “Let me.”
She stepped into the water. It did not ripple. Her hand closed around the pendant, and as she lifted it, a vision struck them both.
Children playing beneath the iroko trees. Elders gathered in council. Spirits walking among the people freely. Then fire. Betrayal. Seals carved in blood.
The vision faded.
Adaeze collapsed into Chidubem’s arms, the pendant glowing faintly in her hand.
“We have it,” she whispered. “The second seal.”
But above them, unseen by either, the wind stirred in warning.
Someone else had awakened.