The Veil of Origins

The fire crackled, its light dancing across Sakura's face as she stepped fully into the clearing. Her amber eyes held Fanta's gaze, unblinking, as though peering into the marrow of her soul. Mike's hand tightened around his knife, but the woman made no move to threaten them. Instead, she knelt gracefully, her cloak pooling around her like liquid shadow. 

"You've been marked by forces older than this forest," Sakura began, her voice low and resonant. "Your hair, your eyes, the scent of blossoms that clings to you—these are not curses, Fanta. They are echoes of a lineage the world has forgotten." 

Fanta's throat tightened. A lineage. The word stirred something primal in her, a flicker of memory she couldn't grasp. "What are you saying?" she whispered. 

Sakura's gaze softened. "Long ago, the daughters of Nyame walked these lands—guardians born of the sky and earth, gifted with the power to mend and destroy. Their tears could heal wounds, their rage could split stone. But fear drove them into hiding. Their bloodline faded… until you." 

Mike edged closer to Fanta, his skepticism warring with awe. "You're saying she's some kind of… demigod?" 

"Not a god," Sakura corrected. "A bridge. The last thread between the divine and the mortal." She reached into her cloak, withdrawing a pendant carved from obsidian—a twisting serpent devouring its own tail. "This belonged to your mother's mother. Anayara never knew its significance. The women of your line were taught to hide, to survive. But survival is not enough now." 

Fanta recoiled. Anayara. Her mother's name on this stranger's lips felt like a violation. "How do you know my family?" 

"I was tasked to watch over them," Sakura said, her voice tinged with sorrow. "When the elders of Ogamba turned on your ancestors, I could not intervene. The balance forbade it. But you…" She leaned forward, the pendant glinting. "You have awakened something the world needs. And it has made you a target." 

A cold breeze swept through the clearing. Somewhere in the trees, an owl shrieked. 

—----------------

Sakura led them at dawn to a grove veiled by waterfalls, where the air hummed with unseen energy. Moss-covered stones formed a circle, ancient symbols etched into their surfaces. "This is a place of memory," Sakura said, pressing her palm to the largest stone. "Here, the land remembers what your blood has forgotten." 

For days, Fanta trained—not with weapons, but with her breath, her intent. Sakura taught her to channel the electric current beneath her skin, to command the vines that curled eagerly at her feet. Mike watched, equal parts pride and unease, as Fanta's hair lifted in phantom winds, her eyes flickering between sapphire and molten gold. 

"Your power is not a sword," Sakura warned one evening, as Fanta collapsed, sweat-drenched, after summoning a storm of blossoms. "It is a mirror. It will reflect the heart of those who confront you. Control it, or it will consume you." 

—-------------- 

That night, Mike found Fanta by the river, her knees drawn to her chest. "You've been quiet," he said, sitting beside her. 

She stared at the water. "What if she's wrong? What if this… power… turns me into what Ogamba always said I was?" 

He took her hand, interlacing their fingers. "Listen to me. I've seen you fight, cry, laugh. You're the most human person I know. Power doesn't change that—it just amplifies who you already are." He brushed a thumb over her knuckles. "And who you are is good." 

She leaned into him, her head resting on his shoulder. "What if I lose myself?" 

"Then I'll find you," he said simply. "Every time."

—---------------

On the seventh day, Sakura vanished, leaving only the obsidian pendant and a warning carved into stone: 

"The Crawling Dark stirs. It knows your scent. Prepare." 

That night, the dreams began. 

Fanta stood in a cavern, roots writhing like serpents around her. A voice, slick and ancient, slithered through her mind: "You cannot outrun the hunger of gods, little bridge. We will feast on your light."

She woke screaming, Mike's arms already around her. Outside their shelter, the forest had gone silent. No crickets, no wind. Only the faint click-click of chitinous legs, moving in the dark.

At dawn, they found the carcass of a boar near the river—its body desiccated, as though drained of all life. Mike knelt, grimacing. "This wasn't wolves." 

Fanta touched the pendant at her throat, its edges biting into her palm. "They're coming," she murmured. "The things from my dream." 

Mike stood, slinging his camera bag over his shoulder. "Then we meet them head-on." 

She stared at him—this man who'd traded lenses for a knife, who'd chosen her over reason. "Why are you still here?" she asked, voice breaking. "You could've left. Should've left." 

He cupped her face, his calloused thumbs wiping away tears before they could fall. "Where else would I go?" 

And in his kiss, she tasted the answer: Nowhere. Everywhere. With you.

—----------- 

They never heard the attack come. 

One moment, they were packing camp. The next, the earth erupted, black tendrils lashing from the soil. Mike shouted, yanking Fanta back as the ground split. From the fissure crawled things —shapeless, hungry, all teeth and shadow. 

Fanta's hair ignited, a corona of violet light. "Stay behind me!" she ordered, but Mike was already at her side, knife in hand. 

"Together," he growled. 

The creatures surged.

And the forest burned.

-------------------------

The creatures erupted from the earth in a frenzy of teeth and shadow, their forms shifting like smoke given sentience. Fanta's hair blazed violet, casting jagged light across the forest as she flung out her hands. Vines exploded from the soil, lashing around the writhing masses, but the Crawling Dark dissolved into mist, re-forming inches from Mike's throat. 

"Behind you!" she screamed. 

Mike spun, slashing his knife through the thing's nebulous core. It screeched, a sound like glass shattering underwater, and recoiled—but three more surged in its place. Fanta's breath hitched. Every time she pushed, the power roared louder, hungrier, threatening to spiral beyond her grasp. 

This isn't working, she realized, blood trickling from her nose. They're feeding on it.

A tendril of darkness snapped around her ankle, yanking her off her feet. She hit the ground hard, the wind knocked out of her. Above, the canopy twisted into a vortex of churning black. Mike's voice cut through the cacophony—"Fanta! FANTA!"—but the shadows were in her lungs now, cold and cloying— 

A hand clamped her shoulder. 

The world warped. 

—------------

They landed in a meadow, the sudden silence deafening. Moonlight silvered the grass, and the air smelled of rain-soaked lilacs. Fanta gasped, scrambling backward, her hair still crackling with residual energy. Mike crouched beside her, knife raised, chest heaving. 

"What the hell—" 

"Breathe, child." 

Sakura stood before them, her cloak billowing in a wind that touched nothing else. Her hood fell back, and Fanta's throat closed. 

The woman was… luminous. Golden hair coiled like ropes of sunlight to the ground, framing a face both youthful and ancient. Her eyes were twin emeralds, glowing with an inner fire, and her skin shimmered as though dusted with starlight. She looked like Fanta—or what Fanta might become, if her edges were softened by time and her sorrows gentled into wisdom. 

You are not ready.

The voice bloomed in Fanta's mind, smooth and resonant. Sakura's lips didn't move. 

You have not yet lived. Not truly.

Mike stiffened. "Are you— Are you talking to her? Inside her head?" 

Sakura turned her gemstone gaze on him, and he flinched. "You see more than most, Michael Price. But this path is not yours to walk. Not yet." 

Fanta found her voice. "Who are you?" 

A flicker of sadness. Your kin. The last keeper of the bridge before you. 

"Bridge to what?" 

Sakura lifted a hand, and the meadow trembled. Roots erupted, weaving into a doorway framed by thorns. Beyond it, Fanta saw laughter—children swinging under a butter-yellow sun, the thump-thump of a soccer ball, the smell of freshly cut grass. A playground. 

Normalcy, Sakura whispered into her mind. A life unburdened by gods and shadows. Go. Taste it. 

Mike stepped forward. "Wait— What about those things? The Crawling Dark?" 

"They will come," Sakura said aloud, her voice fraying at the edges. "But not today. Today, I hold the line." She turned to Fanta, her mental voice softening. He cannot follow where you must go, little bridge. Not if you wish him to live. 

Fanta's chest tightened. "What does that mean?" 

The answer came not in words, but in images—a future seared into her mind like a brand: 

Mike, older, laughing, his arms around a brown-eyed child. Mike, gray-haired, photographing a sunrise. Mike, alive. Alive because she let go. 

And then, the alternative: 

His body limp in her arms, her tears dripping onto his still-warm skin, useless. Always useless.

Their love is a key, Sakura warned. It opens a door even I cannot close. 

Fanta's knees buckled. Mike caught her elbow. "Hey— What's happening? What's she doing to you?" 

"She's… showing me." Fanta swallowed. "Choices." 

Sakura's gaze pinned her. You know what you must do.

—------------

The doorway pulsed, the thorns curling inward like beckoning fingers. Mike stared into the playground beyond, his face paling. "Aurora," he breathed. "That's— That's the city I… Tanya." 

The name slipped out raw, bruised. Fanta glanced at him, but Sakura stepped between them, her golden hair swirling. 

"Go," she commanded. "Now." 

Mike gripped Fanta's hand. "Together." 

No.

Sakura's power lashed out, not as a blow, but a shift. The world fractured— 

—and Fanta was falling, Mike's shout echoing in her ears as the doorway swallowed her whole.