Kamaria-
The sun was beginning to dip behind the hills, casting long golden shadows across our secret hideout. The scent of wildflowers and warm stone lingered in the air, a fragile kind of peace. Amari was lying on her back, arms behind her head, humming a tune I didn't recognize. Ogunyemi was carving something into a piece of wood with his blade—always working with his hands. I sat cross-legged near the edge of the stream, letting the water curl around my fingers. The coolness grounded me.
It was one of those quiet, perfect moments that felt like it could stretch on forever.
Until it didn't.
A sharp voice cut through the stillness.
"Ogunyemi! Kamaria! Amari!"
We froze. I looked up at Ogunyemi, whose whole body had gone still. We knew that voice. It was Ogun—his father, our god of iron. And whenever he called like that, something was wrong.
We didn't speak. We just moved.
The three of us followed the sound to the clearing where Ogun stood, arms crossed, eyes hard as tempered steel. He looked every inch the war god that he was—bare-chested, skin dark and gleaming like forged obsidian, iron rings stacked on both wrists, his braids tied high.
I could feel the tension rolling off him.
"A warning has been sent," he said without preamble. "Mount Olympus is waging a war against Ife Ikoro. A war is coming."
A silence fell. I stared at him, not sure I'd heard right.
"Ares," Ogun spat the name like a curse. "Zeus's lapdog and son. He'll be here in one month."
Amari took a step forward. "Why?" she asked quietly. "Why are they attacking us?"
Ogun's jaw tightened. His nostrils flared. "Because Zeus believes I've disrespected him. That I'm growing too powerful. That I no longer kneel low enough when his name is mentioned."
Ogunyemi's brow furrowed. "Did you?"
His father turned sharply toward him, steel in his eyes. "I bowed. But I did not grovel. That's the real problem."
A knot formed in my stomach. I could feel the air tighten, feel the divine tension creeping closer.
"He demanded I acknowledge Olympus' dominion over the forges of the realms," Ogun continued. "As if my fire came from him. As if my iron belongs to them."
There was a dangerous pride in his voice. And no regret.
"I refused," he said. "As I should have."
"And now they're coming," I whispered, my voice barely audible.
"They want my head," Ogun said, eyes locking with mine. "And they'll take this land with it if we let them."
My fingers curled around the hem of my skirt. I could feel the water inside me stir. The magic that had always obeyed me now prickled with unease. A war with Olympus... this was no small feud. This was a battle against gods.
Ogun's gaze settled on me fully now. "Kamaria. We'll need your healing. Your water. You might be the difference between life and death for many."
I nodded slowly. I was afraid—deeply—but I wouldn't run.
Ogunyemi placed a hand on my shoulder, steady. Amari moved closer too, silent, but with that fierce fire in her eyes I knew so well.
We would not face this alone.
"I won't kneel," Ogun said again, more to himself than to us. "Not to Zeus. Not to anyone."
And with that, he turned and walked away, his steps echoing like a war drum.
A storm was coming.
And we were in the eye of it.
...
It had been a few days since Ogun told us the truth—Mount Olympus had declared war. Ares was coming, and with him, the wrath of gods who saw no fault in their fury.
In the training field, the clang of metal rang across the training fields like thunder that would never stop. It echoed in my bones, sharp and endless, as Ogunyemi swung his blade again and again—each strike sending sparks into the air like fireflies.
He was tireless.
Amari stood nearby, her twin daggers a blur of motion, her face focused, fierce. The other warriors of Ogun—some young, some with scars older than me—moved in steady rhythm, training for a war they had not asked for, but would fight all the same.
And I stood apart.
Always apart.
I watched them from the shadow of the trees, arms crossed, my fingers brushing against the river stone that always hung from my neck. It hummed faintly now, warm against my skin—like it could sense my unease.
I hated this.
Not the training. Not Ogunyemi's strength or Amari's skill. But the reason for it. The looming bloodshed. The gods, always using mortals and magic like pieces on a board they never cared to clean.
Why must it always be war?
Why must proving power mean spilling blood?
I closed my eyes, trying to still the thoughts, to feel the water beneath the earth, the gentle heartbeat of the river nearby—but it was drowned out by the noise. The fire. The tension.
"You've always hated swords."
I turned at the voice. My father stood beside me, arms folded, his face worn but gentle. Kunle. The only person who had ever spoken to me like I was more than what I could give.
"I hate what they bring Baba mi," I replied softly. "The screaming. The dying. The silence after."
He looked toward the warriors, his eyes lingering on Ogunyemi—his expression unreadable.
"Then why are you still here?" he asked. Not accusing, just curious. Like he already knew the answer.
"Because I have to be," I whispered. "Because they'll need me. To heal. To survive."
He nodded once, then reached out and tucked a strand of hair behind my ear, just like he did when I was little and scared of the storms.
"I wish I could shield you from this," he said. "But the world... it doesn't listen to wishes."
I sighed. "Maybe not. But maybe it listens to water."
He smiled faintly at that, pride flickering in his eyes. "Then speak to it. Command it. Be what they are not. A gentler force in a cruel tide."
And then he left me in the quiet, with my thoughts and the war drums echoing in the distance.
And still I watched Ogunyemi, who did not yet know how much of him I feared losing.