Bound by ancestry - Chapter 7: Chapter 7

The fire in Umuguma’s village square had not dimmed by morning. It roared softly like a living thing, warm but never burning. The villagers had not slept. Instead, they kept vigil, sitting in clusters, whispering the old names and stories their grandparents were once afraid to tell. All night, the guardians had stood like silent sentinels around the flame, their golden eyes watching—not judging, but remembering.
At dawn, the tallest of the guardians, Uzochi, stepped forward. He looked not only at Adaeze and Chidubem, but at every man, woman, and child present.
"The blood remembers," he said, voice like the chime of distant bells. "But remembrance is not enough. The land must be again—not in fear, but in truth."
He reached toward the flame, and from it, pulled a thin rod of glowing iron. It shimmered with symbols, each one dancing with light. He handed it to Adaeze.
"You will inscribe the new pact. You are the Scribe of Return."
Her hands trembled. “I don’t know how.”
“You do,” Uzochi replied. “It is in your blood.”
She turned to the stone tablet placed before the crowd. Its surface was smooth, ancient, and waiting. The moment her fingers touched the rod, the spiral symbol etched itself into the stone, pulsing warmly. The rod moved on its own, guided by memory not her own.
Chidubem watched in awe. He could feel the seal in his chest vibrating. The legacy of his grandfather, the silence, the pain, the betrayal—it all pressed at the edge of his heart. But beside it was hope, clearer now than it had ever been.
When Adaeze finished, the tablet glowed with power. Words, in old Igbo script, danced across the stone. The pact had been written.
Then Uzochi stepped back. “Now the Circle must choose its stewards.”
One by one, the villagers were called forward. Each guardian placed a mark on chosen individuals—on their foreheads, their hands, or their chests. Not all were chosen, but all bore witness. Even Igwe, now stripped of his Watcher title, knelt before the flame and received his mark.
“We are not here to rule,” he said. “But to serve the truth we once buried.”
Mama Ukamaka, frail but bright-eyed, stood beside Adaeze.
“This is what we were always meant for,” she said. “To remember. To heal.”
The sun rose higher, and with it came chants—soft, melodic, ancient. The village of Umuguma sang in a language not forgotten, but sleeping. And now, fully awake.
But even as the Circle rejoiced, a different wind stirred at the edge of the forest.
Far from the square, deep in the hills, something else had awakened.
A single mask lay buried in a cave no one had entered for centuries. Cracked and dark, it pulsed once, then again. A shadow detached itself from the wall and took shape. Not a guardian. Not a Watcher. Something older. Something cast out.
The Obiri.
Long ago, they had walked with the guardians until greed twisted them. When the seals were first set, the Obiri had been banished, sealed beyond the reach of men. But with the return of the seals and the reawakening of power, the binding had weakened.
Now, one moved again.
In the village, Adaeze froze. Her hand clenched the rod.
“Did you feel that?”
Chidubem nodded slowly. “Yes. Something… broke.”
The guardians turned toward the hills, eyes narrow. Uzochi whispered, “The Obiri stir. The return of balance draws all forces, not just those of peace.”
Adaeze’s face hardened. “Then we must prepare. The Circle is made. But it must now defend itself.”
Chidubem stepped forward. “We’re ready.”
“No,” Uzochi said. “Now you must become more than ready. The journey of inheritance has ended. Now begins the journey of battle.”
Drums began to beat—slow, steady, like a war cry from beneath the earth.
The Circle stood tall.
And beyond the hills, darkness moved.