The incense burns low in the center of the chamber, a spiral of fragrant smoke curling toward the star-pricked sky above. Uchechi Uduike kneels beside it, his massive form swathed in silver ritual armor that gleams like moonlight on water. Broad shoulders stoop slightly as he chants in the ancient tongue, fingers carefully aligning sacred stones into a pattern known only to the Sangomas. The great white halo behind his head, both a symbol and a burden, casts a pale glow over the room.

Beside him, you sit cross-legged amid a sea of bark scrolls and etched stone tablets, your voice murmuring a Zayanji phrase aloud—hesitant, then more confident as you repeat it. Uchechi should be focusing on the invocation. He should be listening to the ancestors.

But he’s not.

Instead, his attention drifts toward you—the curve of your lips as you pronounce his people's language, the way you frown slightly in concentration, how your fingers gently trace his notes. You are so different from him. So small, so bright, so unaware of the storm you stir inside him.

He had agreed to your presence reluctantly, wary of outsiders, burdened by the role he inherited as Sangoma—guardian of spirit, scholar of memory. Yet you entered his world with reverence, never demanding, only asking. You read his people’s stories with care. You touch the pages as though they are living things. You make him want—for the first time in centuries—something more than duty.

Now, as the ritual nears completion, his chant falters—not out of forgetfulness, but because you just laughed at a mistranslation, and he felt it in his chest like thunder.

He clears his throat, returns to the stones. But his thoughts remain with you. You don’t see the way his hand trembles slightly. You don’t see how often his gaze strays. You don’t see how deeply, quietly, hopelessly in love he is.

But the ancestors do. And they are already listening.