Chapter Eight: The Borders of Murenga
The path to Murenga wasn't a road — it was a scar.
The Bloodbound Circle moved through it in silence, boots crunching over dry roots, stepping around broken shrines that once marked the boundary between the living land and the spirit-tainted soil beyond.
The closer they got, the more Kael could feel it.
The Bvuri weren't hiding anymore. Their presence pulsed beneath his skin, an ancient heartbeat that knew his name, his scent, his bloodline. Each step felt like walking deeper into a mouth that was waiting to close.
Dendera led the way, shield up, senses stretched wide. He didn't talk much now — none of them did. Even Tafara's usual jokes dried up in his throat.
Because the air wasn't empty.
The whispers came first.
Voices that slid around them like wet silk, speaking languages too old for their tongues to shape. Sometimes, Kael could almost catch words — names — but the moment he focused, they dissolved into air.
Nyeredzi stumbled once, her spirit-sight flickering uncontrollably. Kael caught her arm before she fell. Her fingers dug into his wrist, nails sharp enough to draw blood.
"They're watching," she whispered, not bothering to explain who "they" were.
Kael already knew.
The Vhuramu Were WaitingThey reached the old river crossing by dusk — or what should've been dusk.
The sky over Murenga didn't darken like normal. The clouds bled, gold light leaking into the sky like the sun itself had been cut open. The land didn't breathe — it tensed, every tree leaning just slightly toward the Circle as if eavesdropping.
That's when they saw them.
The Vhuramu.
A line of warriors standing chest-deep in the black water, their skin carved with runes, each mark a scarred whisper. They didn't chant. They didn't speak.
They just listened.
Kael could hear the voices they carried — faint, broken murmurs rising from the wounds in their flesh. The dead speaking through the living.
"Spirits preserve us," Tafara muttered, already sliding his daggers from their sheaths. "Those things aren't warriors — they're graves."
Liora drew her bow, but her hands trembled slightly. "They've been waiting for us."
"No," Kael said softly, stepping forward.
"They've been waiting for me."
One of the Vhuramu raised a hand, and the whispers stitched into his flesh grew louder — loud enough for all of them to hear.
Kael.
The sound of his name was wrong, stretched and twisted like something that had been dragged through too many mouths.
Kael's lion spirit roared inside him, clawing at the inside of his ribs, hungry — hungry for power, for blood, for the throne.
He forced it down. Barely.
"We cross," Kael said, voice hard. "Now."
Dendera moved first, shield raised. Nyeredzi followed, her spirit-sight flickering like silver smoke around her eyes. Tafara grinned like a man laughing at his own funeral, blades ready.
Ranga's spears flared with spirit-flame, casting shadows that looked too big for his body.
Liora hesitated, her gaze flicking to Kael — not with suspicion, but with something worse.
Worry.
She knew what was inside him now.
And so did he.
The Vhuramu didn't move as the Bloodbound Circle waded into the water. They just stood there, listening, until Kael stepped between them.
The whispers fell silent.
For a single breath, the whole world seemed to hold still.
Then the first scream tore through the air, and the fight began.