Chapter 5: A Whisper in the Metal

The courtyard of Almass Academy smoldered under a gray midday sky, its black stone fissured and slick with blood, the air thick with the tang of ash and juju's dying sparks. Kente knelt amidst the rubble, his ribs screaming where WanLaden's metallic fist had struck, his patched tunic torn and crusted with dust. Pain gnawed at him, sharp and relentless, but his eyes stayed locked on the ruin—Sturmguards pinned by Dethugo's knives, frozen in Layefa's icy chains, their bodies twisted like broken dolls. The shrine to the First Priestess stood untouched, its bead-eyed girl staring through the chaos, a silent witness.

Miss Wolo's voice cut through the haze, raw and jagged, as she faced Adris Matamalah near the plaza's edge. "They slipped me," she hissed, lava simmering beneath her boots, her crescent ornament glinting faintly. "Falther's damn illusions."

Adris's obsidian wings shimmered, his long hair coiling like tendrils as he met her gaze, calm but edged. "You spared them, Wolohinka—for the children. That's why they're gone."

Kente's hand drifted to his pocket, brushing the metal tag. It hummed, warm and alive, a pulse syncing with the bead on his forehead. WanLaden's assault replayed—teleportation cracking the air, Adam's clones slashing, Dethugo's knives flying—and his words, "Scavenger," lingered, heavy with something Kente couldn't grasp. The bead flared, a whisper brushing his mind—"Safe… stronger…"—soft, childlike, then gone.

Tamara slumped beside him, crumbs falling as he chewed his bread, voice trembling. "Thought we were dead. Watchmen… they're real."

"Real enough," Kente rasped, his throat tight. Chioma crouched nearby, her canine-sharp eyes darting, hands twitching with tension. Prophet Mirror stood apart, his dark gaze fixed on the horizon, illusions flickering faintly around him—Falther's brother, Kente recalled, from Miss Wolo's roll call.

Before anyone could speak, the ground shuddered—a low, guttural groan that split the silence. Kente's bead burned, and a shadow rippled at the courtyard's edge. Layefa's laugh echoed, sadistic and sharp, as her icy chain lashed from the rubble, unseen until it struck. It coiled around Sophia Nanny, her goat-like pupils widening as she gasped, her healing mist faltering. The ice tightened, shattering her ribs with a sickening crunch—she crumpled, lifeless, her blood pooling dark.

"Move!" Miss Wolo roared, but Dethugo erupted from the stone, knives flying like porcupine quills. Timi Amadioha smirked, deflecting one with a shimmer, but another caught him mid-step—poison sinking deep, his smug face twisting as he convulsed and fell, foam bubbling at his lips. Bermuda and Raymond lunged, desperate, but Adam's clones flickered into being—swords glowing, precise—and cut them down in twin arcs of light, their bodies hitting the ground with dull thuds.

Kente's heart pounded, the bead flaring hot, but no power came—just pain, just fear. Chioma snarled, her fangs baring as she dodged a stray knife, pulling Tamara back as his tortoise shell flickered weak. Prophet Mirror's illusions flared—a bird, a shadow—distracting a clone long enough for them to duck behind the shrine. Miss Wolo's lava surged, a molten wave that forced the Watchmen back, but too late—four were gone, their deaths swift, inevitable, the courtyard's chaos swallowing any chance to save them.

Adris stepped forward, his aura crushing the air, wings unfurling. "Enough." His hair lashed out, spearing Layefa's chain, pinning Dethugo mid-strike. The Watchmen froze, then vanished—WanLaden's teleportation cracking the air, Falther's illusions cloaking their retreat.

Miss Wolo's fists clenched, her voice breaking. "Damn them."

Kente staggered to his feet, ribs throbbing, the tag's hum sharper now. Tamara whimpered, bread forgotten, while Chioma growled low, her eyes wet but fierce. Prophet Mirror stared at the fallen, his face unreadable, a mirror to Falther's coldness.

"Inside," Miss Wolo barked, turning toward a shattered arch. "Now."

The corridor was damp and dim, torchlight flickering on slick stone as they followed her, a ragged line of four. Kente's hand stayed on the tag, its pulse a lifeline through the fog of loss. The bead flared, and a memory pierced him—Zuri's face, red eyes glinting, pressing the tag into his palm. "For you, Kente. So I'll know you anywhere." A promise carved in metal, etched with a piece of Zuri's soul, a boy sold to pale, red-eyed shadows after the fire WanLaden set.

They entered the Chamber of Ashes, its black stone walls towering, the shrine's bead-eyed girl staring through him. Kente sank onto a bench, the tag's hum syncing with his heartbeat. Tamara sat beside him, silent now, while Chioma paced, fists clenched. Prophet Mirror leaned against the wall, his illusions gone, his eyes dark with something unspoken.

Miss Wolo paced before the shrine, her voice low, cutting. "The First Priestess forged this—her juju runs in us. The Watchmen burn for it, bleed for it. You four survived—barely. The rest…" She faltered, then hardened. "They're ash now. Learn from it."

Kente's fingers tightened around the tag, Zuri's whisper echoing—"I'll get more…"—from a cult of stone and lies. TheSun's golden robes, his soul-cutting hands, the corrupted idol's pulse—Kente hadn't remembered, not until now. WanLaden's fire had sealed it, but Zuri's soul in the tag broke through, a shard of a boy who'd hoped he lived.

Miss Wolo's gaze pierced him. "You. Why'd you charge?"

"Didn't think," Kente said, voice rough. "He'd have taken you."

She smirked, bitter. "Foolish. Maybe brave." She turned to them all. "The capital's called us—early, because of this. You'll train there, under me. Sturmguards don't break. Prove it."

Chioma's growl softened. "Capital? After that?"

"Survive or die," Miss Wolo said, her eyes glinting. "Your choice."

The warship rocked through the night sea, its hull groaning under salt and shadow. In a cramped bunkroom, Kente lay awake, the tag clutched in his fist, its hum a song of Zuri's soul. Tamara snored above, Chioma's breath steadied nearby, Prophet Mirror silent across. The bead glowed—blue-white, faint—then dimmed, syncing with the tag's pulse.

The orphanage clawed back—cold stone, TheSun's voice preaching salvation, cutting souls for his idol. Zuri's red eyes, his pale hands shaping the tags, a secret against the disunity. "They'll sell me," he'd said, "but this stays with you." Sold to the Harvesters, their pale master bending him, Zuri had clung to hope—Kente lived, somewhere.

The bead whispered—"Find me…"—and Kente sat up, sweat slicking his skin. The clouds churned beyond the porthole, a storm older than the sea.