Third Person -
The moonlight blanketed Ife-Ikoro in silver silence, reflecting off the slow-moving waters of the river like whispers of ancient secrets. The night was still—so still it felt like the world was waiting.
At the river's edge, Yemoja knelt in the shallows, her breath ragged, her strength waning. Kunle, her husband, hovered nearby, hands trembling, eyes wide with awe and fear. He had never seen her like this—so powerful, yet so close to breaking.
Her hands pressed into the soft earth, water lapping against her thighs as another contraction tore through her. She gritted her teeth, the pain divine, ancient, sacred. A goddess bringing forth life.
And then—
A cry pierced the air.
Not Yemoja's. A new cry. Tiny, sharp, but fierce.
Kunle dropped to his knees in the water, catching the newborn as she slipped into his arms. He stared, stunned. She was... radiant.
The child's skin was a deep, glowing brown—like sun-warmed soil after rain. Her small fists clenched, trembling with life. Her eyes blinked open far too early, wide and unafraid, dark and soulful, with a thin golden ring circling each iris like a whispered prophecy.
Her hair, wet and coiled, framed her face like a crown of rivers—wild, free, and untamable, even in birth.
She cried again, louder this time.
And then—silence.
Yemoja slumped, her body giving out. Kunle turned, heart thundering.
He crawled to her side, lifting her into his arms as she coughed weakly, her lips stained with blood. Her eyes fluttered open, soft with love and the weight of knowing.
"She's... special," Yemoja whispered, her voice barely above the sound of water.
"What do we call her?" Kunle's voice broke. "What is her name, ifemi?"
Yemoja looked at the child one last time, her gaze burning with warmth and sorrow. A single tear slipped down her cheek, joining the river.
"Kamaria," she breathed.
"Moonlight… born of water… destined for fire."
And with that—Yemoja, goddess of the sea, breathed her last.
Kunle held both his wife and daughter as the river glowed faintly around them.
The wind stirred.
The gods watched.
And Kamaria's journey began.
…
Ten years had passed since the river claimed her mother.
Kamaria had grown into her name—moonlight in motion, with skin that glowed in the sun and eyes that saw deeper than most dared to look. Her father, Kunle, now worked in the palace of Ogun, the god of iron and war, who ruled over the inner fires of Ife-Ikoro.
She wasn't supposed to wander into the forge.
Her father always said it was too dangerous, too hot, too sacred. But Kamaria was curious, always had been. And when Kunle left early that morning, she followed. Quietly. Barefoot. Her feet made no sound on the warm stone path.
The palace loomed above her like a mountain carved by fire and devotion—blades of every kind hung from the walls, and the air shimmered with heat.
And then she saw him.
The boy with fire in his skin.
He stood near the flames, hammer in hand, striking metal with a focus that made the world quiet. He couldn't have been more than thirteen or fourteen, but his arms were strong, his presence steady. Sweat beaded on his forehead, his braided hair tied back with a strip of leather. Every movement he made was precise, like the forge itself answered to him.
Kamaria stood there, half-hidden by stone, staring.
He looked up—caught her watching.
Their eyes met.
Hers wide, full of wonder.
His unreadable. Then—just for a second—a flicker of a smile, like he knew something she didn't. Like he'd been waiting.
"Your name," he said, voice calm, but it rolled like thunder, "What is it?"
She hesitated, then stepped forward, barefoot, chin up.
"Kamaria," she said.
He nodded once. "I'm Ogunyemi."
The hammer dropped with a thud. Their moment was short, but something passed between them—something unspoken, alive, ancient.
Before Kunle found her and scolded her for wandering, Kamaria lingered. She took a breath, then looked at him one more time.
"Would you… like to be friends?" she asked, her voice soft, but steady.
The silence that followed wasn't awkward—it was heavy with something new. Ogunyemi studied her, then reached for the metal with his tongs again.
"If you come back tomorrow," he said, not looking at her, "I'll teach you how to listen to the metal."
Kamaria smiled, a beam of sunlight in the flickering dark.
"Okay."
She turned to go, heart thudding with something soft and unknown. Behind her, Ogunyemi watched—silent, thoughtful—as if he'd just seen a star land at his feet and didn't know whether to hold it or let it burn.
And though her father's call grew louder, Kamaria's steps were light as feathers.
That day, something had begun.