Smoke curled from thatched kitchens, where women pounded yam and stirred thick morning porridges. Children darted barefoot between narrow alleys, chasing goats and each other, laughter echoing like wind chimes through the air. The distant clang of metal rang from Mzeem's forge, where sparks danced off heated iron as he shaped farming tools with slow, deliberate rhythm. Somewhere uphill, the local herbalist's voice could be heard calling out the names of roots and tinctures as she laid them out to dry.
But just behind the clinic, tucked away from the waking world, Leonotis stood in grim determination, locked in battle with a silent enemy.
He swung his tree-branch sword at the dummy—really just a bundle of dried thatch tied with strips of worn fabric to a crooked wooden post. Dried grass flew loose with each precise strike. Slash, parry, thrust.
Gethii's instructions echoed in his head, the cadence of discipline sharpening each movement. He lunged forward, shifting his weight just as he'd been taught—and for a moment, the motion felt right, fluid even. His footwork was clean, his strikes landing with a precision that would have impressed most boys his age. But most boys his age had not trained under Gethii. The memory of his master's movements made Leonotis's own competence feel like a pale sketch of something greater. He was good. He knew that. He just wasn't Gethii yet.
Sweat trickled down his temple, carving lines through the fine layer of red dust coating his skin. The air was thick with the scent of warm earth, dry bark, and the faint perfume of crushed herbs drifting from the clinic's open windows. A lizard darted across the training patch, pausing briefly to blink at Leonotis before vanishing beneath a rock.
He struck again. Harder this time. A burst of effort that he hoped would trigger a surge of power. But the tingle of ase that should have accompanied the movement—the subtle flicker of something ancient and strong—was barely there. A whisper, a taunt.
His shoulders slumped. He dropped the stick to his side and let out a long, slow sigh. His ase felt like a nearly dry well—there, but just out of reach.
The village sounds carried on around him. A woman called out to her sons to fetch water from the spring. The rhythmic thump of pestles in mortars pulsed like a heartbeat from nearby courtyards. A cow lowed somewhere near the western ridge, where the grass was greener and herders let their animals graze under the watch of sleepy dogs.
Leonotis closed his eyes and recalled Gethii's patient voice: Feel the wind move with you. Don't push it. Draw it. He inhaled, feet spread shoulder-width apart, knees bent. He could almost hear Gethii's footsteps circling him like a hawk, correcting his stance with the soft tap of a wooden staff.
He focused on a swaying branch across the yard.
"Inhale. Hold the breath at the base," he murmured to himself. The air filled his lungs, his muscles coiling like springs. He raised his arm, then slashed downward, shouting, "Air strike!"
Nothing.
No shift in the wind. No stirring dust. Not even the curious tilt of a nearby bird's head.
He stood there, breathless, the only movement the slight sag of his shoulders. Another sigh. This one smaller. More tired.
The sun had climbed higher now, and the dusty courtyard shimmered in its glare. A solitary beetle trudged across the cracked ground, undisturbed by Leonotis's failed magic or the world's indifference. With a groan, he let the stick fall to the earth. It landed with a soft thud, scattering more dust. Then he collapsed backward, arms flung out, eyes aimed skyward.
The clouds drifted lazily across the blue, unconcerned with the boy's ambitions. Overhead, red-billed hawks circled in the heat, riding invisible currents. A bee buzzed past his ear.
Then—
A shadow moved across the sky.
Leonotis sat up abruptly, blinking against the light. There—soaring between two hills, high above the tallest trees—was a giant bird. Its wings beat slowly, majestically, each stroke stirring the wind like the sails of an old ship. Suspended beneath it, tethered by glowing rope and swaying slightly in the air, was a large, ornate carriage—its lacquered sides painted with shimmering gold symbols, its glass windows catching the sunlight like fragments of starfire.
He stared, mouth agape. The weariness vanished. Even his frustration with his faltering magic evaporated in the face of such wonder.
Someone important was coming to Idara village. And for reasons he could not yet name, Leonotis knew this was not a passing visit. This—whatever it was—was the beginning of something.
"Leonotis, inside now!" Chinakah called from the clinic doorway. "Wait upstairs," she added as he entered.
The massive bird-drawn carriage landed with a gentle thud on the packed earth in front of Leonotis's old family home—a modest compound nestled beneath towering ebony trees whose roots coiled like sleeping serpents. The afternoon sun gilded the scene with warm gold, illuminating the ornate carvings and burnished metalwork that adorned the carriage. The giant bird, with feathers that shimmered like molten bronze and deep emerald, flexed its massive wings before settling down, eyes sharp and alert.
Two figures emerged from the carriage's shadow: one broad-shouldered and muscular, moving with the calm assurance of a seasoned warrior; the other slight and angular, his movements precise and almost serpentine. Both wore long black coats embroidered with the insignia of a Black Crown—a symbol of the kingdom's elite enforcers and the secretive inner circle of King Rega's court.
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Chinakah hurried forward. Her dark eyes flicked toward the insignia, recognition and unease crossing her face. Without hesitation, she offered them earthenware cups filled with cool water and honey—a gesture of hospitality and tentative goodwill. The men declined without a word, their gazes scanning the compound like predators assessing their territory.
Upstairs, Leonotis pressed his forehead against the cool glass of the window, watching the majestic bird and the enigmatic men below. He traced the glint of sunlight dancing on the creature's feathers and imagined the untold tales it must carry. He wondered if Gethii had ever ridden such a beast—perhaps soaring over war-torn landscapes or skirting the jagged peaks of the Shadow Mountains. More than anything, Leonotis pondered the true purpose of the black-coated visitors.
He strained to catch their words as Chinakah spoke softly, but the conversation was muffled and distant. Then, suddenly, Chinakah's eyes snapped upward toward the window, her expression sharp and urgent. Get out of sight, her gaze implored.
One of the men's eyes locked onto Leonotis immediately, and with a measured nod, he pointed at the boy.
"Come down, Leonotis," Chinakah called, her voice taut with unspoken tension.
Reluctantly, Leonotis descended the wooden stairs and stepped outside. Only one man remained in the courtyard—a dark presence emanating from him like the shadow of a storm. Without preamble, he produced a dagger from his coat: a blade black as midnight, etched with runes that pulsed faintly with an eerie, otherworldly light.
"I don't have an attribute stone," the man said, his voice cold and deliberate, "but if he truly is a child of darkness, he will activate the knife."
The dagger was pressed into Leonotis's palm. He stared at it, willing some flicker of power to rise within him, but the blade remained inert, its runes unlit.
"There you have it. The boy has no black ase," Chinakah said.
"Hmm. His lineage should have resulted in a black magic affinity. His mother claimed she tested him two years ago and he had high ase energy," the man said, his gaze unwavering.
"Maybe it was just wishful thinking," Chinakah suggested. The man stared at her blankly.
Then the other man came from around the corner. Hovering beside him, surrounded by swirling black energy, was a large piece of ice. Frozen within was a woman. She had long black hair, dark brown skin, and wore a black dress. In her hands was a staff with an animal skull at its top.
Leonotis looked at her the way you look at a painting of someone you were told you should recognize. The long black hair. The dark dress. The staff with its animal skull. He had seen this face in pictures—Chinakah had shown him enough of them—but pictures had never made her feel real, and neither did this. She was just a woman in ice. Beautiful, maybe. But she wasn't his mother. His mother was a word people said around him carefully.
He waited for something to move in him. Grief, or longing, or even anger. Nothing came. He stood in the bright courtyard beside the frozen woman who had given him life, and felt only a hollow, bewildered silence—like a room he had been told was full of furniture, and wasn't.
That, somehow, felt worse than any of the other options.
Chinakah's eyes widened in anger. "I told you I didn't want the boy to see the body—that you were to bring her out when I gave the signal!"
The man ignored her. "When will the frost spell need renewing?"
"The spell will hold for about two days before you'd need to reinforce it," Chinakah said, her voice strained.
"We can make it back to the kingdom in three days if we push hard," he replied. The aseweaver opened the back door of the carriage and floated the frozen woman inside. Both men started to climb in.
"Wait—what about the boy? You aren't taking him with you?" Chinakah asked, her voice rising.
The aseweaver looked at her. "We can't carry dead weight. Besides, Sir Njiru instructed us to take him only if he had black magic." Leonotis felt a surge of relief. He didn't want to go with them anyway.
"The king will expect your immediate presence to report on what happened here," the black aseweaver said to Chinakah. "We have room for you. Get in. We'll also need you to ensure the body stays frozen."
Chinakah glanced at Leonotis. He was twelve years old. If she left with these men, who would make his breakfast? Who would make sure he didn't spend all day training, send him to bed on time? Her jaw set. She needed a reason to stay, and she needed it now.
"I gave my report six months ago to my superior," Chinakah said.
"The new king likes his reports in person," the smaller man said.
"You have Sadia's notes on the creature and her body. You report that to the king, and if he truly needs me, send word. I'll come."
"We report to Sir Njiru," the black aseweaver said, his voice hardening. "The new king likes reports in person. Especially since you let such a valuable creature escape."
The air crackled with tension. Leonotis glanced from Chinakah to the men, tracking the distance to the front door, noting Bradan's hands, noting that Chinakah had not stepped back. His tree-branch sword was inside the house. If only Gethii were here.
Bradan removed his cloak slowly, as though he had all the time in the world.
"Bradan," said the smaller man—Hinley—his voice flat. "We were told not to kill anyone on this mission."
"That depends on her," Bradan replied, eyes fixed on Chinakah. "There's nothing we can do if we act in self-defense."
"I swore that oath to the old king," Chinakah said, standing her ground, though her voice had gone quiet in a way that felt more dangerous than shouting. "Not this one. I have given my report. Now leave."
Hinley looked at Bradan for a long moment, then at Chinakah. Then he straightened his coat. "Enough," he said—not to Bradan, but to the whole situation, as though it had never been worth the effort. "There's no shortage of water aseweavers on the road who won't need convincing." He nodded toward the carriage. Bradan held Chinakah's gaze for one beat longer, then followed.
Neither of them looked back.
Leonotis and Chinakah stood in the courtyard and watched until the carriage was swallowed by the sky. When it finally vanished beyond the hills, Chinakah let out a breath that seemed to carry the whole morning with it.
The village sounds returned slowly—pestles, goat bells, a child laughing somewhere down the slope. But the familiar world felt thinner now, as though something had been peeled back to show what lay underneath.
Leonotis stared at the empty sky and said nothing. There was nothing to say yet. But he understood that the day had changed the shape of everything that would come after.
Ase and the ranks of power work:
1. The Average Person Most people use Ase internally. They can flow this energy through their bodies to strengthen their muscles, toughen their skin, or sharpen their reflexes. It is the foundation of every great warrior and laborer.
2. The Aseborn Some are born "blessed"—possessing significantly more Ase than the average person due to a closer connection to a patron Orisha. An Aseborn typically chooses one of two paths:
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Aseweavers: Combat-focused users who weave their energy into martial arts and elemental strikes. Aseweavers tend to be the warriors and soldiers of the Aseborn world, their power visible and physical.
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Aseseers: Spirit-focused users who lean into the spiritual side, focusing on divination and the unseen. Aseseers move differently through society, often becoming priests, advisors, or seers whose influence is felt rather than seen.