After crossing the bridge, we climbed back onto the Ashtaris and rode for what felt like hours. The sun had started to dip beneath the hills by the time we arrived at Ajiboye. Just moments before nightfall.
The first thing I noticed was the change in terrain. Unlike the flatter, more humid lands of the west and south, Ajiboye was built among low mountains and scattered rock formations. The air was cooler too—chillier than I expected—and it settled on the skin like an early warning of harmattan. Even the sky felt different. Quieter.
We dismounted and began walking alongside our Ashtaris. It seemed more respectful. The village wasn't crowded, but peaceful in the way certain places are when the people have learned not to rush life. As we walked through, the villagers began to notice our cloaks. The navy, the sigils, the posture. We didn't need to introduce ourselves. They knew who we were.
Some paused whatever they were doing just to watch us pass. A few clasped their hands or bowed slightly. Others simply stared until we were no longer in view.
One man, a particularly excited one, followed us a few steps, fixated on Tor—tall, broad.
"You must be very strong," the man said, staring at him in awe. "Surely you're the leader. How many Fallen have you slain?"
Tor, of course, fed off the attention like a starved goat in a yam barn. "More than two hundred," he said, flexing slightly.
Major Deji gave him a sharp look. The kind that could cut through armor.
Tor didn't flinch. He played the role the villagers had cast him in, enjoying every second. And maybe… rightly so. It's not every day people treat you like a god.
We kept walking—until we were approached. Three men this time. I noticed them before they spoke. Their garments were different from the others—uniformed, ceremonial.
Shorter too, like most of the Ajiboye locals we'd seen so far. The one in the middle had the firmest walk. Predictable. He was their leader.
"I am Saba Ndako," he said, his voice calm, almost rehearsed. "Madarikan of Ajiboye, and second son to the village chief. On behalf of our people, I welcome the Adesina Family to our village—and humbly offer you a place to rest."
Major Adeshola stepped forward. "We appreciate the welcome, Madarikan," she said with her usual poise. "But we are not here to stay. We're simply passing through. Our journey is a long one."
Saba bowed lightly. "Still, the Chief insists. It is tradition to show respect to the Divine families. And the sun is nearly gone. Surely, rest would strengthen you for the road ahead. You honor us with your presence. At least allow us to offer food, shelter, and supplies. Even if only for the night."
Major Adeshola seemed ready to decline again. Her stance, though polite, was firm.
Then Major Deji, who had been quiet until now, stepped in. "He's right," he said plainly. "We've walked a long way. Crossed a great bridge. If we don't stop here, we'll just have to stop later in a worse place. One night won't delay us."
That was the first time I noticed something.
Adeshola didn't argue. She didn't even hesitate. Her posture softened immediately. No trace of the resistance she'd just shown. It wasn't that Deji's reasoning was wrong—he made sense. But I could tell Adeshola hadn't rejected the offer earlier without thought.
And yet, the moment Deji spoke, she stepped back as if her own reasons didn't matter anymore.
***
The guest house the villagers prepared for us was more decent than I expected—spacious, with two rooms: one for the men, the other for the women. We got settled in quickly, and not long after, night fell.
Ajiboye felt… alive.
As the sky dimmed, the sound of drums and laughter began to fill the air. Warm light glowed from poles with small flames or enchanted stones hanging from their tops, casting a soft golden hue across the village paths. The scent of grilled fish drifted in the breeze, mixed with the faint sweetness of roasted plantains. Children ran around barefoot, tossing handwoven balls and shouting through games I didn't recognize. The elderly were already gathered in the open square—dancing, swaying in unison, clapping with every beat of the drums like it was second nature.
Simi nudged me. "Come on, let's take a walk," she said, eyes already lit up with excitement.
Before I could answer, Ajani stepped forward. "Can I join?"
Simi paused for a bit too long before answering. She looked at me, hoping I'd decline. But I didn't. Ajani and I had grown close. I wanted him to experience this moment with me too.
"Sure," I said. Simi tried not to show her disappointment, but I caught it.
Tor stayed back with Major Deji. Said he was tired, but I think he just didn't like crowds.
We walked slowly through the village paths, watching. The villagers danced like they'd been waiting all week for this night. Every movement felt familiar to them, joyful and free. A few noticed us as we passed, offering respectful nods at first—until one of the women broke from the circle and waved toward us.
"You! Yes, you three—come dance!" she called, pointing right at me and Simi.
I shook my head slightly, but another man stepped forward, echoing the same request. "Come! You're guests—tonight, you dance with us!"
Simi was already halfway into the circle before I could say anything else. Her smile said it all. There was no escaping my fate tonight.
I let out a quiet breath and joined them.
The villagers clapped as we entered. They began showing us the steps—simple at first. Move your feet, clap on the beat, turn, repeat. I followed. Not well, but enough to blend in.
"This is such a wonderful night," Simi said, laughing as she twirled beside me.
"It really is," I admitted.
Ajani, on the other hand, wasn't so lucky. A young woman had pulled him into the crowd and was twirling him around like he was made of straw. His face said everything—he hated it. I couldn't help but laugh. He had insisted on coming. His misery was well-earned.
The music shifted. The fast, playful rhythm melted into something slower, deeper—like a heartbeat. The dancers responded in sync, turning toward their partners, holding hands in a way that felt ceremonial.
Simi and I froze at first. I was ready to step back, maybe use the sudden change as my excuse to leave. But she turned to me, eyes gleaming. "You're not escaping now," she said with a grin.
She took my hand and gently guided my steps. Somehow, she already knew the rhythm.
"You've done this before?" I asked, adjusting to her pace.
"Mhm," she nodded, her expression softening. "Comes with the blood. My family are proud dancers."
I raised a brow. "No wonder you're always so agile."
That was when I realized… I'd never asked her much about her family. So I did.
"Do you have any siblings?"
She nodded. "Three sisters. Two younger, one older."
"You miss them?"
She looked at me for a beat, then nodded again. "Yeah. Every day."
And then I asked her, "Why did you leave them? Your sisters… your family. Why choose this life?"
Her expression changed. Just slightly—but enough for me to notice. Like my question pulled something out she hadn't expected to share tonight.
For a second, I thought I'd crossed a line. That she'd shrug it off, say something vague, and change the topic. And if she did, I wouldn't press. I knew what it was like to carry a past too heavy to explain.
But she answered.
"To protect them. And care for them," she said, voice soft.
A typical answer. One I'd heard before, in different forms, from almost everyone in a divine family. Most left their homes to become protectors and providers. Some joined out of duty to their kingdoms, others for respect, and a few for revenge. Then there were people like me—who had no family left to protect. People who were given a second chance, not because we asked for it, but because someone thought we were still useful.
Simi's answer felt noble, like the others. But something in her voice said there was more.
So I asked, "What about your elder sister? Is she in a family? Or maybe a Madarikan?"
That was when the mood truly shifted.
She missed a step. Her rhythm faltered. And the look in her eyes… it wasn't sadness, not exactly. It was something heavier. Quiet anger, maybe. Or shame that didn't belong to her.
I had gotten used to the steps by then—surprisingly fast, actually—and when I noticed her losing her rhythm, I instinctively reached out to guide her hand and shoulder back in place. That broke her silence.
"She's not," Simi said, almost under her breath. "She's not in any family. Neither is my mum."
There was a long pause before she went on.
"My father died when we were young," she began. "So it was just my mother raising us—four daughters, barely any help, and no real opportunities. Being a woman in a man's world…" She shook her head, and her jaw tightened. "It's survival of the smartest. And the most desperate."
She didn't have to say more, but she did.
"She started sleeping with men to survive. Quietly. Secretly. At first, my sister was disgusted. She swore she'd never do the same. But life has a way of breaking promises you make in your youth."
I didn't say a word.
"She tried everything—tailoring, selling herbs, odd jobs. Nothing worked. Eventually, she followed the same path. Maybe it was choice. Maybe it wasn't. But it happened." She swallowed hard. "So I left. I left because if I didn't, I would've ended up the same. And if we all fell, who would be left to pull us back out?"
She looked down at our joined hands. "I want to be someone my younger sisters can follow. Someone they don't have to pity."
The music had faded somewhere in the middle of her story. I hadn't noticed when. The crowd of dancers had dispersed, leaving us standing alone at the edge of the square. Even Ajani had wandered off, still deep in conversation with the lady who'd dragged him in earlier.
Simi and I just stood there. The air around us felt warmer now—not from the night, but from everything she had shared. From what it cost her to say it out loud.
Before I could respond, a man approached us—dressed in soft, rich fabric that marked him as someone of importance, but not quite of power.
"The Chief has requested your presence," he said politely. "He's hosting a private dinner. You're all invited."
We hadn't met the Chief since our arrival. I suppose now was the time.
I gave Simi a small nod. She returned it without a word.
We called out to Ajani, who looked like he had just remembered we existed. Together, the three of us followed the man down the lantern-lit path toward the Chief's palace.
***
When we arrived at the palace, it was a beautiful sight to behold—grandeur, but not the kind that felt boastful. It clearly reflected the wealth of the village, and more importantly, it matched everything we had seen so far: a consistent display of class, warmth, and tradition.
We were led inside, and immediately, I spotted several Madarikan guards stationed across the entrance. My body instinctively tensed. It always did whenever I saw Madarikans—especially in numbers like this. I kept my face calm, my steps measured. Any sign of discomfort could raise suspicion, and if even one of them recognized me, it could be the end. Backing out now would be worse. So I held my composure and walked forward.
The interior was well-lit. The walls, creamy and spotless, looked like they were repainted daily—there wasn't a single blemish on them. Maids moved gracefully through the halls, dressed in modest, uniform attire, attending to every need with practiced ease.
As we were guided to the dining area, we saw the rest of our Hand Unit already seated at the table. Apparently, they had been invited in earlier, and we were the last to arrive. The realization hit, and we quickened our pace—though I had my own reasons for hurrying. Eyes followed us as we took our seats, and the atmosphere shifted into a quiet hush.
Dinner was served promptly. The table was filled with a stunning array of dishes from the Central Region—pounded yam with Okoho soup, its slick texture clinging to every morsel; Egbe, the soft, river fish delicately steamed and barely seasoned, letting its natural flavor shine; a millet-like paste made from ground melon seeds; and fonio porridge, thick and rich with earthy tones. The variety was almost overwhelming.
I reached for what I knew—pounded yam. But even that tasted different here. Not like the versions I'd had in the West or South. It was sharper in its flavor, more grounded.
As we ate, the Chief formally introduced himself: Chief Ndako the Fourth—his voice deep, commanding, but laced with a fatherly warmth. His frame was small and steady, age showing only in the gentle greying of his beard. Around his neck hung thick beads of carved stone and polished bone, unique to the Ajiboye people—each one likely holding meaning, history, and power. He lifted a hand as if motioning to invisible names. "My first son, Etsu Ndako, is not present tonight. He is away on contract duties—serving as is expected of any born into responsibility."
He then turned slightly to his right. "This is Saba Ndako, my second son. I believe you've met."
Saba, seated upright and alert, gave a brief nod in our direction. He was still dressed in his Madarikan uniform, as if to say formality and duty were never to be separated—not even for dinner.
Chief Ndako then gestured to his left. "And this is my last born… Yisa Ndako."
The young woman beside him looked barely out of adolescence, but she sat with the poise of someone raised around diplomacy and expectations. Her hair was braided with tiny golden rings that glinted under the light, each braid falling carefully around her shoulders. She was stunning in a way that wasn't loud—more like light in motion. Her presence drew attention without asking for it.
Except she wasn't focused on making an impression on the table. Her eyes were locked, subtly but certainly, on Tor—who, completely unaware, was focused on tearing a piece of pounded yam with such dedication you'd think it was the mission he was sent on. He didn't notice the glances. Or maybe he was too hungry to care.
I caught the way Yisa's gaze lingered, and when her eyes met mine for a fleeting second, I almost chuckled. It wasn't the mischievous kind of look. More curious. Amused. Maybe intrigued. Whatever it was, Tor had unknowingly become the centerpiece of someone else's interest.
Simi leaned in slightly and whispered near my ear, "She's watching him like she's already picked out wedding fabric."
I tried not to laugh.
The Chief welcomed us warmly and spoke with pride about his village. It was, according to him, a regular stop for Divines traveling between the West, East, and North. Whenever they passed through, he made it his duty to receive them with respect—when he was around, of course. He then mentioned recognizing Major Deji, to which Deji gave a subtle nod. That small gesture confirmed the familiarity. No wonder he had no issues stopping here—it wasn't just a coincidence.
The Chief then asked for our names. We introduced ourselves one after the other, and he listened attentively, nodding with each one. When it got to Tor's turn, he was too busy chewing to realize what was happening. Simi nudged him, and he suddenly shot up like a startled recruit being called to attention.
Up until then, we had all stayed seated during the introductions—it was dinner, after all—but Tor standing so abruptly felt so out of place that the room burst into laughter. Embarrassed, he sat back down quickly.
The Chief chuckled and said, "With a frame like yours, it's no wonder you love food. Must take a lot to keep it all balanced."
Tor gave a sheepish nod.
"What's your name, son?" the Chief asked.
"Tor Adesina," he replied.
The Chief raised an eyebrow, smiling faintly. "And your birth surname?"
Tor shook his head, signaling he didn't have one.
An awkward silence followed. You could feel it tighten the air.
Major Deji stepped in swiftly. "Many who join the family come from different backgrounds," he said. "Some don't have surnames, and when they join, they take the family's name."
The Chief nodded slowly, his expression softening. "The world we live in... it truly forges each person in its own way. No path looks the same."
We continued our meal, and after a while, the Chief asked the question that had been floating unspoken since we arrived.
"So, where are you all headed?"
Until now, no one had asked about our destination—only where we came from.
Major Deji answered.
"Since you're part of the Central Regions, I'm sure you've heard about the chaos brewing around the Confluence."
The Chief's expression darkened slightly, and he nodded. "Yes… yes, I've heard. That explains it, then."
He leaned back in his chair, fingers steepled thoughtfully. "Resources have been harder to come by lately. Our traders, goods carriers—many have struggled. Some routes are no longer safe. We've been forced to manage."
At that, my eyes drifted across the table. It was filled with more food than most villages could afford in a week. "Manage," he had said. If this was what managing looked like, then I wondered—what would abundance look like?
Perhaps indulgence was the better word.
Still, I kept that thought to myself and continued eating, listening, and watching.