Chapter 15: Stormbound Allegiance

Oya's sanctuary was a cathedral of living thunder.

Adewunmi woke suspended in midair, cradled by a lattice of lightning that pulsed like veins. Below her stretched a fractured landscape—floating islands of scorched earth, rivers flowing upward into blackened clouds, and storms that coiled like serpents. Time here bled in all directions: she glimpsed flashes of her past (her father's grave, Iyaoluwa's tears) and fragments of futures that might never be (a village swallowed by light, a throne of bones).

"Welcome to the eye," Oya said, materializing beside her. The Orisha's form flickered—one moment a woman robed in tempests, the next a vortex of raw elemental fury. "Where nothing is forgotten. And nothing is truly real."

Adewunmi jerked free of the lightning, her boots finding purchase on a shard of floating rock. The ichor gauntlet clung to her hand, its whispers drowned by the sanctuary's roar. "Where's the mimic?"

"Closer than you think."

A figure coalesced from the storm—Erinlẹ, armored in molten iron, his spear dripping celestial fire. But his eyes were wrong: twin pools of gold, not molten bronze.

"Hello, little storm," the mimic crooned in Erinlẹ's voice. "Did you miss me?"

The Pact of Storms

Adewunmi lunged, gauntlet-first. The mimic parried with Erinlẹ's spear, the clash sending shockwaves through the sanctuary. Oya watched, amused, as islands shattered and storms recoiled.

"You're wasting strength," the mimic taunted. "I am everyone. The doubt in the elder's heart, the fear in your mother's breath. I am the echo of Adéọlá's regret."

Adewunmi's gauntlet flared, tendrils of ichor binding the mimic's limbs. "What do you want?"

"What all forgotten things want." The mimic's form rippled, shifting into Iyaoluwa. "To be seen."

Adewunmi faltered. Oya struck.

The Orisha's winds tore the mimic apart, scattering its essence into the storms. "Sentiment," Oya sneered. "Your weakness."

"And yours?" Adewunmi shot back. "Why save me?"

Oya's stormlit eyes narrowed. "Because you are the key to the gate. The true gate—not Adéọlá's pitiful rift. With your blood and my power, we will storm Orun and unmake the divine hierarchy."

A vision flooded Adewunmi's mind: Oya's tempests ravaging the celestial realms, mortal and god kneeling alike. The gauntlet throbbed in approval.

"And my mother?" Adewunmi demanded.

Oya's smile was a blade. "A casualty of ambition."

The Blood of Adéọlá

The sanctuary trembled, spitting them back into the jungle. Dawn stained the sky, but the light felt hollow, diluted. Adewunmi found Iyaoluwa at the temple ruins, her hands carving symbols into the dirt with a rusted blade.

"Ẹni tí ó ti sọnu…"

"Mama, stop!" Adewunmi grabbed her wrist.

Iyaoluwa turned, her eyes voids of swirling gold. Adéọlá's voice spilled from her lips: "You think you can outrun fate? The gate chose you. Let me show you why."

Memories not her own erupted in Adewunmi's mind:

Adéọlá, centuries younger, standing before the original gate—a pristine arch of starlight. The Orishas pleading, threatening, as she channeled Oshun's essence into the stone. "I will make a world without gods," Adéọlá vowed. Then, betrayal: Oshun's essence recoiling, twisting the gate into a wound.

Adewunmi wrenched free, gasping. "You tried to destroy them. But the gate corrupted you instead."

Iyaoluwa/Adéọlá laughed. "Corruption. Salvation. They are threads of the same weave."

Erinlẹ's Ultimatum

Erinlẹ found them at noon, his wrath igniting the air.

"The debt is due," he growled, spear leveled at Iyaoluwa. "Her soul or yours."

Adewunmi stepped between them, the gauntlet crackling. "There's another way. The mimic—it's using your form. Help me destroy it, and I'll give you the gate's power."

Erinlẹ's molten gaze bored into her. "You reek of Oya's lies."

"And you reek of fear," Adewunmi countered. "The mimic isn't just a shadow—it's a mirror. It shows us what we hate in ourselves. You want the gate's power? Then stop hiding behind threats and take it."

For a heartbeat, the Orisha wavered. Then he laughed, low and dangerous. "You wear defiance like armor. But armor cracks."

He vanished, leaving a scorched sigil on the ground—a war-god's mark.

The Mimic's Ascent

At dusk, the villagers came.

Baba Ifa led them, his eyes still glazed gold. "The golden one demands tribute," he intoned. "A life for passage."

The mimic materialized above the gate's wound, now wearing Adewunmi's face, its form radiant and grotesque. "Your blood, stormchild. Or theirs."

A child was shoved forward—Tunde's sister.

Adewunmi's gauntlet lashed out, but the mimic caught the tendril, absorbing its power. "You see? We are the same. You hunger for control. I hunger for freedom."

Oya's voice slithered into Adewunmi's mind: "Strike now! Use the gauntlet's full power!"

Adéọlá's voice followed: "Break the cycle. Let the gate consume them all."

Iyaoluwa's voice, faint but true: "Save her, Ade. No matter the cost."

Adewunmi made her choice.

The Fractured Veil

She plunged the gauntlet into the gate's wound.

The world screamed.

Ichor and stormlight collided, tearing reality asunder. The mimic howled, its form unraveling as the gate's true power awoke—a colossal archway of starlight and shadow, its keystone a pulsating heart of Adéọlá's essence.

The villagers fled. Baba Ifa collapsed, his eyes clearing too late.

Oya materialized, her storms merging with the gate's energy. "At last! Orun will burn!"

Adewunmi turned, the gauntlet disintegrating as the gate's power flooded her veins. "No. You will."

She channeled the full force of the gate into Oya, the Orisha's screams merging with the thunder.

But power demands balance.

As Oya fell, the gate claimed its price: Iyaoluwa, dragged into the void by Adéọlá's spectral hands.