Chapter Nine: The River of Whispers
The first scream didn't come from the Bloodbound Circle — it came from the water.
The river itself howled, a sound like bones grinding inside a throat too ancient to have a shape. The Vhuramu warriors didn't charge. They didn't need to.
The water moved for them.
Black tendrils lashed out, hands that were only half-formed clawing at the Circle's ankles. Cold — not just physical, but spiritual — poured into their bones, a hunger older than Murenga itself.
Dendera planted his shield into the riverbed, the ground shuddering as its spirit-forged edge cut through the curse beneath them. The water hissed, retreating from the shield like it had been scalded.
"Hold formation!" Dendera roared.
Kael was already moving — faster than he should've been able to. The lion in his chest pushed him forward, his claw-blade flashing in the bleeding light. The first Vhuramu fell without a sound, but no blood came from his body — only more whispers, escaping like breath from a broken mouth.
"Don't let them touch you!" Nyeredzi warned, her spirit-spear flashing in and out of sight, cutting through shadows that had no bodies.
Tafara was laughing again — not because it was funny, but because if he didn't, he'd lose his mind. He danced through the water, crescent daggers slicing into warriors who didn't seem to care if they lived or died, only that they stood in Kael's way.
"Why are they just blocking us?" Ranga growled, his twin spears trailing fire through the mist.
Liora's arrow glowed with pale light, striking a Vhuramu straight in the chest. His body folded in on itself, collapsing like smoke sucked into a jar.
"They're not here to kill us," Liora said, voice tight. "They're here to slow us down."
Kael's heart pounded.
Because she was right.
They were buying time.
The whispers in his bones were louder now, calling him by names he didn't know, in languages that felt too familiar. Names older than Kael. Older than Murenga.
Chadawo.
The name rang through his skull like a hammer against stone.
His lion spirit froze, a flicker of something ancient and primal washing through Kael's limbs. Not fear — recognition.
Chadawo.
The First King.
Kael stumbled, water sloshing around his knees. The Vhuramu directly in front of him stopped fighting.
Instead, the warrior dropped to one knee, head bowed.
"Kael!" Dendera's shout broke through the whispers. "Move!"
The world snapped back into focus — the burning sky, the shifting water, the blood and smoke. Kael's claw-blade came up, cutting through the kneeling Vhuramu before the creature could speak again.
But the damage was done.
The whispers knew him now.
They knew what he was.
The Blood of the First King.
Kael's breath came fast, panic scratching at the edges of his mind. The lion in his chest was no longer just pacing — it was pushing, pressing against his ribs, hungry for power. For the throne.
He couldn't tell the others. Not yet.
Not until he knew who he was fighting — the Vhuramu, the Bvuri… or himself.
"Push forward!" Kael ordered, voice hoarse. "We break through now!"
The Bloodbound Circle fought like a storm — fire, steel, spirit, and shadow crashing into the line of Vhuramu. Bodies dissolved into mist and whispers, the river churning with ancient hate.
Liora's arrows lit the way, each shaft a pale beacon against the encroaching dark.
Together, they reached the far bank.
Behind them, the Vhuramu didn't pursue.
They just stood in the water, watching. Listening.
Kael didn't look back.
He couldn't.
Because if he did — if he listened too closely — he knew he'd hear the truth.
The Vhuramu weren't calling for his death.
They were calling for their king to come home.