Kamaria heard the shouting before she saw the blood.
Warriors stumbled through the gates of Ife-Ikoro, limping, dragging the wounded, some holding in screams with clenched teeth. The battle had been brutal—an uprising in the mountains, and Ogun's army had crushed it. Victory, yes, but not without cost.
She was carrying a bowl of cool riverwater, meant for the elders resting beneath the shade of the iron trees, when she saw him.
Ogunyemi.
He was being helped off a horse, his side drenched in blood. A deep gash carved through his shoulder and down his ribs. His braids were loose, his jaw clenched in pain. But even broken and bruised, he moved like fire. Like steel refusing to bend.
Kamaria dropped the bowl.
"Kamaria!" someone shouted, but she was already running.
Her feet didn't think. Her breath didn't pause. Her heart beat faster than it ever had—faster than the river at flood.
They laid him down on the cool stones near the forge. His blood made the ground smoke.
No one moved to heal him. Not yet. The priests were tending to Ogun himself. And he—Ogunyemi—was fading. His breath shallow, eyes half-lidded.
Kamaria knelt beside him.
"Get away, girl—" one of the guards began, but Kamaria didn't hear him. Her hands hovered above his wound. She was crying, shaking. "Please," she whispered, "Don't leave. Not you."
And then… her hands began to glow.
The water that clung to her skin shimmered, lifting into the air like threads of silver silk. It spun around her fingers, flowed into the wound.
Ogunyemi gasped, body arching.
The gash sealed slowly, the torn skin weaving itself back together. The blood faded into steam. Bone mended. Breath returned.
And then silence.
Everyone stared.
Kamaria pulled back, her hands trembling, eyes wide. The glowing water faded back into droplets. She looked at Ogunyemi, who was staring at her now—not in pain, but in awe.
"You healed me," he said, voice hoarse.
"I don't know how," she whispered. "I just… needed you to live."
He sat up slowly, staring at her with new eyes. "You carry the river in your blood."
"I think…" Kamaria breathed, tears slipping down her cheeks, "I think it's always been there."
He reached for her hand—calloused fingers brushing against hers. "Then it waited for the right moment… and the right reason."
And just like that, her world changed.
The river had remembered her mother. And now, it remembered her too.
…
The forge was quiet that evening, bathed in golden light. Behind the palace, tucked between the heat of the smiths and the chill of the river, was a small garden where iron couldn't reach—Amari's favorite hiding spot since the early days of their friendship, now two years strong.
Kamaria sat barefoot on a smooth rock, dipping her toes in the stream that curled through the garden like a silver ribbon. Ogunyemi leaned against a tree, arms folded, still healing but stubborn as ever. Amari plucked tiny red blossoms and tucked them into her thick curls, humming.
"Tell her," Ogunyemi said, nodding toward Amari.
Kamaria bit her lip. "She'll think I'm mad."
Amari raised a brow. "Me? Mad? You clearly haven't seen the way I dance during the rain."
"Exactly," Ogunyemi muttered.
Kamaria laughed, then hesitated. "Today after the battle… when Ogunyem was hurt i… I—I healed him."
Amari blinked. "You what?"
Kamaria held out her hand. A droplet lifted from the stream, rising into the air, spinning like a tiny moon. It glowed faintly, pulsing with soft light before falling back into the water.
Amari's jaw dropped. "Yemoja's breath," she whispered. "You weren't just named by the river. You are the river."
Kamaria looked down. "It only happened because I was scared. I didn't mean to—"
"Don't ever say that," Amari interrupted, stepping closer. "You saved someone you care about. That's not something to fear. That's something to honor."
Ogunyemi watched her quietly. "It makes sense," he said at last. "Water is gentle, but it never yields. Just like you."
Amari grinned. "This changes everything. We have a healer now. A moon-child with river magic. And a forge boy with fists of steel. Who's gonna mess with us?"
They all laughed, and for that moment, they were just three teens in a garden—before war, before gods, before the world burned.