Chapter 16: The Throne of Fractured Stars

The gate's power was a song with no end.

Adewunmi knelt in the crater left by Oya's demise, her hands buried in soil that glittered with celestial ash. The gate's arch loomed above her, its surface now a mosaic of starlight and shadow, each fragment humming with the voices of a thousand realms. Her veins pulsed with their rhythm—gold and black, light and void—as if her body had become a conduit for the cosmos itself.

Erinlẹ's spear hovered at her throat, its heat blistering her skin. "What. Have. You. Done?"

She met his molten gaze. "What you couldn't."

The Orisha snarled but didn't strike. Behind him, the jungle trembled. Trees uprooted, their branches twisting into grotesque arches mirroring the gate. The air rippled with half-formed shapes—wings, claws, eyes—as realities bled together.

"The balance is broken," Erinlẹ growled. "Orun's wards are crumbling. The things that crawl between realms…"

"Will answer to me," Adewunmi said, rising. The ground cracked beneath her, tendrils of starlight lashing at the encroaching anomalies. They recoiled, hissing.

Erinlẹ's laugh was bitter. "You think yourself a goddess now? You're a child playing with a wildfire."

"Then step aside," she said, "before you burn."

The Whisper in the Void

That night, the gate sang her to sleep.

Adewunmi stood on a bridge of fractured light, spanning an abyss where constellations withered and rebirthed themselves. At its center floated Iyaoluwa, suspended in a cocoon of shimmering threads.

"Mama?"

Iyaoluwa's eyes opened—one human, brown and warm; the other a swirling galaxy. "You shouldn't be here, child."

"I'm getting you out," Adewunmi said, reaching for the threads. They sliced her fingers, blood crystallizing into stardust.

"There's no 'out,'" Iyaoluwa whispered. "The gate is in me now. And I… I am in it." Her human eye spilled tears. "Adéọlá's here too. She says… she's sorry."

The bridge shuddered. A figure emerged from the abyss—Adéọlá, her form flickering between woman and storm. "The gate was never a weapon," she said. "It's a mirror. It shows each realm its deepest flaw. Orun's arrogance. Earth's fear. And you…"

Adewunmi's reflection appeared in the void: a queen of ash and radiance, her crown a nest of serpents and swords. "What am I?"

Adéọlá smiled sadly. "The question."

Sango's Gambit

At dawn, the storms returned.

Not Oya's tempests, but Sango's—controlled, calculated, and laced with something darker. Lightning carved symbols into the village square, demanding tribute: "Bring the gate-child or burn."

Baba Ifa, his mind cleared but his body frail, limped to Adewunmi's hut. "They'll hand you over. Fear has made them desperate."

"Let them try," Adewunmi said, polishing a shard of the shattered gauntlet. Its edges gleamed with residual gate energy.

"This isn't a battle of blades," Baba Ifa warned. "Sango seeks to usurp Orun's throne. With the gate's power, he'll reduce this world to kindling."

A scream pierced the air. Beyond the hut, a vortex spiraled—Sango's doing. Within it, a village boy dangled, his limbs stretched by unseen forces.

"First tribute," Sango's voice boomed. "The gate-child… or the innocent."

The Weight of Crowns

Adewunmi stepped into the vortex.

Sango awaited her in a realm of floating thunderheads, his axe crackling with stolen divinity. "Little storm. How kind of you to—"

She hurled the gauntlet shard. It pierced his shoulder, gate energy searing his celestial flesh.

"You dare?" Sango thundered.

"I've slain one Orisha," Adewunmi said. "Don't make me a habit of it."

Lightning arced toward her, but she caught it, channeling it into the gate's song. The realm shuddered, thunderheads collapsing into waterfalls of molten glass. Sango staggered, his aura dimming.

"You fight for mortals who hate you," he spat. "Why?"

"Because someone must." She pressed her palm to his chest, gate energy surging. "And because I'm tired of gods."

Sango exploded into a million shards of light, his essence scattering across the cosmos.

The boy fell safely into her arms.

The Cost

Victory tasted of blood and static.

Adewunmi collapsed at the village edge, her body rejecting the gate's power. Black-and-gold fissures split her skin, weeping stardust. Villagers gathered, their fear tempered by awe.

"She saved us," Tunde's sister whispered.

"At what cost?" another muttered.

Erinlẹ materialized, his spear sheathed. "You're dying."

"I know."

"The gate's energy is too pure for mortal flesh. Even yours." He knelt, grudging respect in his gaze. "There's a way. A ritual, older than Orun."

"Why help me?"

"Because the realms need balance. And you… you amuse me."

He placed a hand over her heart. Fire engulfed her—not pain, but purpose.

The Ritual of Twin Flames

In the temple ruins, Erinlẹ carved a circle of war-runes into the stone. "The ritual will bind the gate's energy to your soul. But it requires an anchor—something more mortal than divine."

Adewunmi clutched her mother's iro, salvaged from the hut's ashes. "Will it hurt?"

"Excruciatingly."

The runes ignited. Adewunmi screamed as the gate's power fused with her essence, rewriting bone and blood. Visions assaulted her:

Her mother, weaving starlight into a new realm.

Adéọlá, battling shadows in the abyss.

A throne of fractured stars, waiting.

When the flames died, she was whole—but different. Her hair shimmered like midnight galaxies, her eyes twin supernovae.

Erinlẹ studied her. "What are you now?"

She flexed her hand, reality warping at her touch. "The answer."