The blood moon hung like a weeping eye over the gate, its light staining the temple ruins in hues of rust and gold. Adewunmi clawed herself upright, her ribs screaming, Erinlẹ's blade searing her grip. Across the clearing, the archway pulsed, its stone frame now a rippling curtain of stormlight. And there, silhouetted against the void, stood Adéọlá—alive, unshackled, her eyes twin tempests.
"You," Adewunmi breathed.
Adéọlá stepped forward, the earth cracking beneath her feet. "You've done well, descendant. The gate breathes because of you." Her voice was layered with echoes, as though a chorus of storms spoke through her.
Sango dropped Iyaoluwa's limp body, his thunderous laughter shaking the jungle. "Did you think her a prisoner of history? She is its architect."
Adewunmi's corruption flared, veins of ash and gold throbbing. "You lied. The curse… the prophecy—"
"Was a riddle," Adéọlá interrupted. "One only my blood could solve." She raised a hand, and lightning arced from the gate to her fingertips. "The Orishas cower in their realms, clinging to fading glory. But this world… it burns with potential."
Behind her, the gate's vortex deepened, revealing glimpses of Orun—Oshun's rivers running black, Yemoja's oceans boiling.
The Blade's Whisper
Erinlẹ's blade writhed in Adewunmi's grasp, its hilt hissing: "Strike now. Claim her storm. Become what they fear."
Adewunmi hesitated. Adéọlá's power was intoxicating, a siren song that made her corruption hum in harmony. But Iyaoluwa stirred at the archway's base, her fingers twitching—alive.
"You've seen their weakness," Adéọlá pressed, advancing. "The Orishas are parasites, feeding on mortal devotion. With the gate, we will invert their realm. Let them drink from our wrath."
Sango hefted his axe, lightning dancing in his eyes. "Join us, little storm. Or die a martyr to gods who despise you."
Adewunmi's gaze flicked to her mother. Iyaoluwa mouthed a single word: "Remember."
The Memory of Water
The blade's whispers faded as a vision engulfed Adewunmi:
She knelt beside her father's grave, seven years old, her mother washing her bleeding knees with river water. "Oshun's tears," Iyaoluwa had said. "They heal what's broken."
"But the river isn't crying," Adewunmi had protested.
Her mother smiled sadly. "All waters are connected, child. Joy, sorrow, rage—they flow together. To wield one, you must honor them all."
The Fracture
Adewunmi dropped the blade.
Adéọlá hissed. "Fool! You spurn destiny?"
"I redefine it." Adewunmi slammed her corrupted palm into the earth. Golden roots erupted—not Oshun's light, but a tangled weave of shadow and storm. They ensnared Sango's ankles, yanking him into the soil up to his chest.
Adéọlá roared, hurling a bolt of lightning. Adewunmi caught it, the energy merging with her corruption. She pushed—not at Adéọlá, but at the gate.
The archway shuddered, its stormlight dimming. "You'll kill us all!" Adéọlá screamed.
"No," Adewunmi gasped. "Just you."
With a final surge, the gate imploded.
The Aftermath
Silence.
Adewunmi collapsed, her corruption receding like a tide. The temple ruins lay in smoldering wreckage, the blood moon now a pale scar. Of Adéọlá and Sango, there was no sign—only Iyaoluwa, crawling to her daughter's side.
"You… stopped it," Iyaoluwa rasped.
"Temporarily." Adewunmi stared at her hands, the veins still flecked with black. "The gate is a wound now. It'll reopen."
Erinlẹ's blade lay nearby, its glow extinguished. But as Adewunmi reached for it, the metal disintegrated to ash. A voice echoed from the remnants: "You owe me a soul, little storm."
The Council of Bones
That night, the elders came.
Baba Ifa, his robes singed, stood at the head of the procession. "The corruption marks you," he said, staring at Adewunmi's arms. "You are Adéọlá's heir. The village cannot survive another curse."
Iyaoluwa stepped between them. "She saved you!"
"And damned us," a woman spat. "The storms return at dawn. Oya's vengeance."
Adewunmi rose, her voice quiet. "I'll go."
"No!" Iyaoluwa gripped her arm.
"The gate's wound is in the jungle," Adewunmi said. "I can seal it… but not here." She met Baba Ifa's gaze. "Give me until the next moonrise."
The elder nodded, shame etching his face. "Go with the gods, child."
"The gods," Adewunmi muttered, hoisting a pack of supplies, "can go to hell."
The Whisper in the Wound
Deep in the jungle, the gate's remnants festered—a tear in the air, oozing black ichor. Adewunmi pressed her palm to it, and the corruption sang.
"You are not done," it crooned. "The blade is gone, but I remain. Let me show you true power."
She recoiled, but the ichor clung, hardening into a gauntlet around her hand.
A figure emerged from the trees: Oya, her form half-shadow, half-storm. "You intrigue me, mortal. Adéọlá's blood, yet you defy her."
"What do you want?" Adewunmi hissed.
Oya's smile was all teeth. "To watch you burn brighter than Sango. To see what emerges from the ash."