The forest of Oke-Osisi was alive with the soft hum of morning, the kind of life you could feel in your bones if you stood still long enough. Tendrils of mist clung stubbornly to ancient tree trunks, like they were reluctant to leave the embrace of the night. Oby moved through it all, her white dress patterned with red flowers catching the dappled sunlight in a way that made her look like she belonged more to the forest than the world outside.

She didn't just walk; she flowed, her steps whispering secrets to the earth. Flowers seemed to bloom a little brighter in her wake, moss glowed like it was lit from within, and even the small creatures—normally so quick to dart away—paused as if they wanted to watch her pass.

Oby's thoughts wandered to Rebecca, her oldest friend, the one who had carried more potential than anyone Oby had ever known. Witchcraft wasn't just in Rebecca's bloodline—it was her bloodline, a current so strong it could have made her legendary. St. Leo had whispered her name even before she had done anything remarkable because everyone knew she would. But gifts like that never came without their price, and St. Leo was the kind of place where magic didn't just breathe—it exhaled expectations.

"The call was too strong," Oby said under her breath, the words like a prayer to no one in particular. She remembered how it had swallowed Rebecca whole, that magical inheritance transforming from a gift into a storm.

Rebecca had seen it too, seen the way it was changing her, twisting her. So, she'd done the unthinkable. She'd walked away. Fled to Lagos with five-year-old Nze at her side, trading a future of greatness for a shot at normalcy.

Oby crouched, her fingers brushing against a cluster of moonwort, the silver-green leaves glinting like coins in the morning light. Beside it, a patch of rue spread low to the ground, its energy soft but insistent. These weren't just plants; they were memories. Memories of afternoons spent with Rebecca, baskets overflowing with herbs, their laughter blending with the rustling of leaves as they dreamed of all they might become.

"Her soul will find rest," Oby whispered, her words slipping into the morning forest like they belonged there, carried by the breeze that wound through ancient trees and hopeful young saplings.

Fate, Oby thought, was a merciless choreographer, spinning lives into patterns no one could escape. Rebecca had run from St. Leo years ago, fleeing the magic that coursed through her veins, trying to build a safer world for her son. And now? Nze had returned, only to be claimed by the oldest, most unbreakable of supernatural bonds. A leopard's imprint.

"Unless the leopard dies," Oby murmured, the bitterness cutting through her voice, "the imprint will bind Nze forever. His will, his life—they'll never be his own again."

It wasn't just a bond; it was a sentence. The imprint wasn't about possession—it was about permanence. A connection deeper than blood, more binding than any spell or human promise. Nze and the leopard were tied together now, their lives knotted by an ancient magic that laughed in the face of logic. They weren't just linked; they were fused. One life couldn't move without pulling the other along.

And Iza? Sweet, sharp, fearless Iza, her niece who had fallen for Nze like it was her own fate pulling the strings? She was caught in the orbit of a story she could never rewrite. A spectator to a bond that no amount of love, or hope, or sheer stubbornness could undo.

Humans, witches, were-beasts—none of them were exempt. They were all just dancers, swaying to fate's relentless, impossible rhythm. Some tried to lead. Most just followed. But no one ever escaped the music.

The forest seemed to lean in, its shadows wrapping tighter around its ancient secrets, listening as if it already knew how this dance would end.

Oby wandered deeper into the forest, her hands brushing against the leaves and stems she had spent a lifetime memorizing. These plants were old friends, their names and properties as familiar to her as the lines in her own palms. She moved with purpose, but not urgency, scanning the undergrowth for the specific herbs that had drawn her here. The morning mist clung stubbornly to the ground, softening the edges of the world, making her feel like she was walking through a dream. 

And then the scent hit her. 

It wasn't just a smell—it was a memory, sharp and vivid, clawing its way to the surface. A heavy, musky odor, tinged with something metallic and wild. It was familiar in the worst way, the kind of familiarity that makes your stomach knot before your brain catches up. 

Jaguar. 

Her breath caught, and she stilled, her senses reaching beyond what her eyes could see. It had been years since she'd caught this scent in this part of the forest, a place the witches of the West Wing had long claimed as their own. The jaguars knew better than to wander here, and yet... 

The stench grew stronger, more oppressive, pressing against her like an unwelcome touch. And then she saw them—emerging from the mist like ghosts conjured from someone else's nightmare. Their sleek bodies moved with a lethal grace, growls rumbling low in their throats. They circled her slowly, their eyes glowing with an unnatural light. 

Oby's heart thundered in her chest, but she didn't move. If there was one thing you didn't do in the face of a predator, it was panic. And if these were-jaguars had the audacity to step into witch territory, it could only mean one thing. 

Nyamekye. 

Their leader was here. Arrogant, fearless, and entirely too comfortable challenging the unspoken rules of the forest. 

Oby barely had time to process the thought before the jaguars lunged. Their bodies blurred in the air, fangs bared and claws extended, a whirlwind of muscle and fury. But Oby was faster—or rather, the forest was. 

The roots beneath her feet surged to life, lifting her into the air as if she weighed nothing. She became one with the earth, her body merging with the roots that twisted and coiled like serpents. The jaguars found no purchase, their claws scraping harmlessly against bark and air. 

And then the roots retaliated. They struck like living whips, lashing out at the jaguars with a ferocity that matched their own. The creatures were caught mid-leap, tangled and suspended upside down, their growls turning into strangled yelps as the roots tightened around them, squeezing the fight out of their bodies. 

The forest fell silent, save for the creak of wood and the faint rustle of leaves. 

And then she appeared. 

Nyamekye stepped out of the mist like she had all the time in the world. Her movements were slow, deliberate, the kind of predatory grace that didn't need to rush to be terrifying. She was beautiful in a way that made your skin crawl, her golden eye glowing with amusement as she took in the scene before her. 

"Still not a cat person, Obioma?" Nyamekye purred, her golden eye gleaming with amusement. "How quaint, clinging to roots when the forest could be so much... more. You disappoint me."

Oby didn't answer. She didn't need to. The roots around her pulsed, ready to strike again at her command. But Nyamekye just smiled, a slow, dangerous curve of her lips, as if she already knew this dance and how it would end.

✩₊˚.⋆☾⋆⁺₊✧ ✩₊˚

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