The humid air clung to Nyamekye like an unwanted second skin, sticky and suffocating, as if the entire forest had conspired to choke the life out of her. Roots as old as time itself coiled tighter around her limbs, their rough bark scraping her skin, each microscopic thorn delivering a burning sting that felt somewhere between bee venom and heartbreak. She could taste the dirt—bitter and ancient—and the desperation sitting heavy on her tongue. Every shallow, ragged breath felt borrowed, the kind you only take when the universe is in the process of deciding whether or not to let you keep existing.

Just when hope was no longer a word that meant anything, the air around her did something impossible. It didn't shift or blow or swirl—it fractured, as though reality itself had decided to split open just long enough to let in something new. And from that crack in the world, two women appeared—not like someone stepping through a door, but like they'd been woven directly from the darkness, stitched together by the trembling hands of stars.

The first woman looked like fire had dressed her for the occasion. Her gown—if you could even call it that—was the color of sunsets and rage, and it shimmered with an energy that felt alive. Her skin glowed like polished copper under a summer sun, her eyes sharp enough to cut through centuries of secrets. She didn't say a word—didn't need to. With nothing more than a flick of her wrist, flames leapt into her palm, moving like they had thoughts and feelings and vendettas of their own. They didn't just burn the roots; they unmade them, slicing through the ancient bindings with all the precision of someone who had been practicing this very moment for centuries.

As the roots burned and disintegrated, Nyamekye collapsed to the ground, her body wracked with violent coughs. Dirt and ash mixed with her saliva, and her first words were a raw, visceral promise: "I will kill that witch."

Her dramatic proclamation hung in the air, met with a knowing, almost sardonic smile from the second witch. Dressed in midnight blue with intricate silver embroidery that seemed to shift and move even when she was perfectly still, this woman radiated a different kind of power—calculated, strategic, intellectual.

"I'm guessing things with Obioma didn't exactly go according to your... aggressive plan?" Her voice had that smooth, sing-song quality that somehow made her mockery hit twice as hard, like she'd rehearsed it just to savor the delivery. 

Nyamekye pushed herself up slowly, her were-jaguar muscles coiling beneath her skin, ready to pounce, to strike, to end this conversation with violence if necessary. Sunlight, weak and filtered through the forest canopy, caught on her teeth—slightly too long now, gleaming like promises she wasn't going to keep. "Your subtlety," she growled, her voice low and sharp enough to cut through trees, "isn't exactly flawless either, Chinasa." 

Amaka—the flame throwing witch, stepped forward, the flames of her gown twisting and curling like they had opinions of their own. "Were-beasts," she said, dragging out the word like it was some kind of inside joke she wasn't letting Nyamekye in on, "always forget the basics. Seduction. Persuasion. You know, the human stuff. Charm. Patience. The delicate art of getting what you want without ripping someone's throat out." 

Nyamekye's eyes narrowed, gold and feral, as she spat back, "We're warriors. Not politicians." 

"Right," Amaka said with a tilt of her head, the corners of her mouth pulling into a smirk that wasn't so much a smile as it was an acknowledgment that she'd already won. "And yet... here you are. Trapped. Defeated. By a little witch's magic." 

From the sidelines, Chinasa raised an eyebrow, as if to say 'Checkmate.'

Nyamekye's hands clenched into fists. "Why do we even need Obioma? Explain that to me. She's just another witch."

"Just another witch?" Chinasa's laughter was like shattered glass. "Obioma is the most powerful witch of the West Wing. In the war that's coming—her allegiance could mean the difference between, I don't know, everyone dying horribly or not"

Amaka nodded, her flames now dancing around her fingers like excited, sentient creatures. "She is a keystone. A lynchpin. And you, Nyamekye, with all your teeth and claws and, frankly, alarming enthusiasm for smashing things, don't exactly have the finesse for this."

The silence that followed was thick enough to choke on—filled with every ancient grudge, every insult hurled and never forgiven, every wrong turn in a labyrinth of tangled loyalties.

Nyamekye finally broke it, her voice a low growl, like the kind of thunder that makes you check the windows. "So what do you propose?"

The witches exchanged a look—a look that spoke of centuries of collaboration, of secrets shared and strategies crafted in the shadows between worlds.

Chinasa turned back, her tone infuriatingly calm. "What we've said from the start—since the very first day you crashed into this with your big, ambitious ideas and zero patience. We do this our way. And you, my dear, impulsive friend, will follow."

Nyamekye's muscles tensed, a growl building in her throat like it was ready to leap out and strangle the entire conversation. She took a deliberate step forward, her voice low and crackling with restrained fury. "I will not be relegated to some secondary role in my own war," she snarled. "You witches think you can pull strings from the shadows and bend the world to your will. But you forget something very important—"

She leaned in, her golden eye glowing with a dangerous light. "You forget your place."

Amaka subtly positioned herself between Nyamekye and Chinasa, flames flickering at her fingertips like warning signals.

Chinasa, however, remained infuriatingly calm. She raised one hand, palm out—a gesture that was simultaneously a warning and a plea for patience. "Easy," she said, her voice a silk-wrapped blade. "Leave Obioma to us. Your... directness would only complicate our approach."

"And what am I supposed to do?" Nyamekye demanded, her were-beast nature bristling with barely contained fury.

"Worry about Arthur and his leopards," Amaka interjected.

Nyamekye's lips curled in a snarl, her frustration palpable. "What about the Nduka family?" she demanded, pacing to shake off the tension coiled tight in her muscles. "Eli, Naomi, and Rebecca's boy—he's back at St. Leo, and Arthur's sister has already sunk her claws into him."

Chinasa's fingers traced an intricate rune in the air, its shimmering lines sparking faintly. "I'll watch the boy," she replied, her voice calm, like she was solving a riddle only she could see. "Study him. See if he's a wildfire waiting to spread, or just... a spark smoldering in the wrong place."

"Meanwhile," Chinasa added, not looking up, "you might want to worry about things closer to home."

Nyamekye raised an eyebrow, her challenge half a question, half a dare. "Like what?"

Amaka's flames flickered down to a faint, thoughtful glow, licking at her fingers like fireflies reluctant to leave. "The Eze family," she said, the words dropping with a finality that made the air heavier. "They could be more than just allies—they could be your tipping point. That pack's got raw power, strategy, loyalty. If you can convince them, they'll fight like they've got their names etched into the outcome."

"Those bureaucrats fight for nothing but themselves and their better-than-thou status." Nyamekye muttered, her voice edged with disdain.

"You need them, Nyamekye." Amaka countered.

Nyamekye's claws itched to extend, to slice through the smug calm radiating off Chinasa and Amaka. In the old ways, neither of them would have dared to utter her name without reverence, but the times had changed, and witches now wielded power that rivaled even the gods.

Her mind screamed for action—revenge now, questions later. But then, deep in her chest, something primal tugged at her—a memory, a warning. Her father's voice: "The strongest hunter isn't the one who strikes first. It's the one who waits for the right moment to kill."

Nyamekye exhaled slowly, a growl rumbling low in her throat. "Convincing the Ezes would be a victory in itself," she muttered, her rage smoldering into reluctant strategy. "And if the Eze pack refuses?" she asked.

Chinasa's smile was razor-thin. "Then we adapt. We always do."

The forest seemed to pause, its ancient trees standing as silent witnesses to the fragile dance of power unfolding below. Every word, every gesture, carried the weight of potential ruin, as if one wrong move could shatter the delicate balance holding everything together.

✩₊˚.⋆☾⋆⁺₊✧ ✩₊˚

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