The Corridor Beneath Ginen
Duthak walked like he remembered the place.
His chains didn't drag. They hummed—quiet tones of ancient oaths, wrapped in the weight of ten thousand denied freedoms.
Ayola followed him, cautious but curious. Her staff was still warm in her hand, its sigil pulsing like a question without a tongue.
"Where are you going?" she asked.
Duthak's reply came without turning.
"To a place even the gods pretend doesn't exist."
They passed through the central cross of Ginen, where the four cardinal paths split into infinity. But Duthak didn't take a road.
He stepped off the path entirely.
Into the dirt.
Ayola stopped. "That's not a road."
"It is," Duthak said. "Just not for them."
He crouched, clawed fingers brushing aside the dry, whispering soil. Beneath the dust was stone — etched with script older than prayer, older even than Legba's name.
Then Duthak spoke a word.
Not aloud.
Within.
The earth didn't shake. It exhaled.
And the ground beneath them opened.
The air inside the corridor was thick with presence. Not evil. Not divine.
Just… undeniable.
Ayola stepped cautiously behind him, the silence pressing like deep water. The walls pulsed with shifting carvings, scenes that changed with every glance — stories of beings who traded truth for teeth, who built crossroads in places no light reached.
"This is where the demon gods bled," Duthak said softly.
"Not because they lost. But because they chose to be forgotten."
Ayola touched the stone. It felt warm. Alive.
"Why show me this?"
Duthak stopped.
"Because you sit in Legba's seat, whether you meant to or not. And this path—the one beneath all others—it answers to the keeper of the gate."
He turned to face her.
"You think you watch the Crossroad. You are the Crossroad now. If you don't learn to open and close it, someone else will."
Ayola's breath caught. "But I don't know how."
"You do," he said. "You just haven't remembered yet."
He raised a hand, fingers glowing faintly with restrained power. The carvings on the corridor wall bloomed with motion.
Four locks appeared, shaped like nothing in the physical world—concepts more than keys:
Choice. Timing. Intention. Witness.
"These are what govern the Crossroad," Duthak said. "Not divinity. Not strength. Not even faith."
He placed a clawed finger on the first sigil: Choice.
It lit.
Then he stepped back.
"You try."
Ayola hesitated. The corridor watched her. The silence waited.
She reached forward. Her hand hovered over Witness.
The moment her palm touched it—
She heard everything.
Not voices. Not prayers.
Decisions.
Billions.
Every being at a turning point.
Every soul weighing paths.
Every heart whispering, "What now?"
Tears ran down her cheeks. Not from pain. But from knowing.
Duthak nodded. "That's what you're keeping. Not roads. Not borders. Not doors."
"You're keeping the right to choose."
Ayola's other hand touched Intention. Then Timing.
And the corridor responded.
A pulse of light.
A shift in air.
A quiet folding of the Crossroad's layers.
The gate was hers.
She knew now how to open it.
And more importantly…
How to close it.
Duthak watched her with something close to pride—and something closer to warning.
"Be careful with this gift," he said.
"Because one day… someone will knock again.
And they will bring not a ripple… but a flood."
Then, without another word, he stepped back into the dirt.
And the secret corridor sealed itself behind him.
Ayola remained alone in the silence of Ginen, hand still resting on the stone.
But she was not a watcher anymore.
She was the keeper.
And the next knock would not catch her by surprise