Reconnection

The blue light does not fade so much as it withdraws inward, as if it has chosen me as its vessel. I feel it gathering inside my chest first, dense and humming, then spreading outward in slow, overwhelming waves. My vision turns entirely white, not bright like fire, but soft and absolute, as if I am standing inside the moon itself. For several heartbeats, perhaps more, time loosens its grip. I am no longer aware of the forest, of the pain, of the assassins, or even of my own fear. There is only this presence, immense and intimate at once, flowing through me with a familiarity that makes my breath catch. I feel my bones knit themselves together with a quiet certainty, fractures sealing as if they had never existed. Muscles tighten and restore their strength. Torn flesh closes, skin smoothing beneath my fingers without leaving scars. The warmth of blood returns where cold had begun to claim me, filling my veins with a steady rhythm that feels borrowed from something far greater than myself. I do not command any of it. I do not even ask. My body simply remembers how to live, and the energy allows it.

When the white recedes, and the forest comes back into focus, I stagger, not from weakness but from disbelief. I am standing upright, breathing evenly, my limbs whole and responsive. The pain is gone. The blood that soaked my clothes moments ago has dried into dark stains, but beneath it, my skin is unbroken. I look around, and my breath stops again, this time in horror. Everything within a wide circle around me is dead. Leaves crumble into dust at the slightest movement of air. Grass lies flat and colorless, stripped of all moisture. Tree bark has cracked open, splitting like old clay under a merciless sun. It is as if life itself has been drawn out of the land, leaving only hollow forms behind. I take a step forward, and the soil beneath my foot collapses inward, dry and brittle.

My gaze moves, slow and unwilling, toward where the assassins had surrounded me. They are still there. Or rather, what remains of them is. Three bodies lie scattered among the dead undergrowth, frozen in their final positions. Their skin clings tightly to bone, stretched and pale, lips pulled back to reveal teeth in silent grimaces. Their eyes are dull and empty, sunken deep into their sockets. There is no blood, no sign of violence, as I understand it. Only absence. Whatever force passed through this place did not strike them down. It emptied them. I feel a sudden tremor run through my chest, and I force myself to move closer, step by careful step, as if approaching something sacred and forbidden at once.

I kneel beside the nearest body, my heart pounding hard enough that I can hear it in my ears. The armor is unmistakable. The build. The hands. I turn my head gently, my fingers trembling despite my effort to remain steady. It is Mundra. There is no doubt left in me. The recognition brings no relief, only a deep, aching weight. I do not know what expression I expected to find on his face, but this emptiness is worse than anger would have been. I look at the other two, confirming what I already know. Blades. Trained. Sent for me. I swallow hard and search their bodies, not with intent but with a need to understand, to anchor myself to something real. That is when I find it.

The key rests half buried in the dust near Mundra’s hand, its metal surface untouched by the desolation around it. I pick it up slowly. It is cool, heavy, and shaped with deliberate care. At the end of its handle, a small sun is engraved, rays flaring outward in a pattern I recognize instantly. My breath catches as memory rises unbidden. The wall in the hall of The Community. The faint seam in the stone. The door that does not open. I turn the key over in my palm, my thoughts racing despite the stillness of the forest. Could this be the answer to a question I never dared ask aloud? Could this be how one enters what was meant to remain sealed? I close my fingers around it, unease and resolve twisting together inside me.

As I step backward, moving away from the dead circle of land, the air shifts again. A second flash erupts before my eyes, white-edged with blue, softer than before but no less commanding. I squeeze my eyes shut on instinct, my heart leaping, unsure if I am about to lose myself entirely. When I open them again, the forest is no longer empty.

They stand before me, taller than any human, their presence bending the space around them as if reality itself makes room. Their form is humanoid yet undeniably other. Long, elegant limbs glow with a fusion of white and deep night blue, light spiraling gently within their chest like slow-moving stars. Their hair cascades endlessly down both sides of their head, thick curls forming two vast waterfalls that seem to move without wind. Their face is difficult to grasp, features shifting subtly, never fixing themselves long enough to define, yet I cannot look away. Beauty is too small a word for what they are. They are not woman nor man, but something infinite, something whole.

I stand frozen, my breath shallow, the key still clenched in my hand, as I finally understand who stands before me. Yulin has taken form.

I cannot move at first. My legs feel rooted to the forest floor, not by fear this time, but by the sheer weight of their presence. Yulin stands before me, and the night seems to fold inward around them, as if the moonlight itself has decided to listen. The air vibrates softly, like a held breath stretched across the world. When they speak, it is not only sound. It is sensation. Their voice flows through me, warm and resonant, carrying a melody that does not belong to any human throat.

“Little light.”

The words settle gently against my chest, and my eyes burn before I can stop them. I bow my head instinctively, pressing my palm against my sternum, as if that might steady the trembling inside me.

“You came,” I whisper, my voice small, almost lost beneath theirs. “I thought… I thought you would remain silent forever.”

Their presence shifts, and the spirals of indigo light within their chest brighten, slow and deliberate.

“Silence is not absence,” Yulin replies. “It is waiting. It is listening. And tonight, little light, your voice reached beyond the veil.”

I swallow hard. My thoughts scatter, and what remains is gratitude so sharp it aches. “I failed you,” I say. “When you appeared before, I did not protect you. I let Masimba come close. I put you in danger.”

Yulin steps closer. I feel no threat, only an overwhelming tenderness that makes my knees weaken.

“You did not fail,” they say, and for the first time, there is something unmistakably affectionate in their tone. “You acted with the knowledge you held at the time. Regret is the mark of a connected soul, not of betrayal.”

I lift my head, disbelief flickering across my face. “You forgive me?”

“Yes,” Yulin answers without hesitation. “You knelt at the edge of death and spoke my name not to beg, but to give thanks. That gratitude carried truth. It reached me even as the gates trembled.”

My breath shudders as it leaves me. “Thank you,” I murmur, the words feeling painfully insufficient. “I do not deserve such mercy.”

“Deserve is a human measure,” Yulin replies. “Connection is not earned. It is recognized.”

They turn their gaze slightly, looking not at me, but through me, as if peering into something vast and broken beyond the forest.

“The one who hunted you,” they continue, and the warmth in their voice cools, sharpening into something older and sterner. “The one who wore the name of Gudo.”

My jaw tightens. “Masimba.”

“Yes,” Yulin says. “He is no longer what he once was. Within him is bound the spirit of the sun, Akin. Trapped. Drained. Used.”

A chill runs along my spine. “So it is true,” I whisper. “I felt it. Something was wrong, but I could not name it.”

“You sensed the fracture,” Yulin replies. “Akin’s light has been siphoned for years beyond counting. Without the sun’s spirit infusing the world, the gates weaken. Soil dries. Rivers turn bitter. Life thins.”

Images flash through my mind. The dying fields. The strange imbalance. Tonderai’s untouched lands. “He is feeding on Akin,” I say slowly. “Using him to live longer. To gain power.”

“Yes,” Yulin answers. “Masimba is sustained by borrowed eternity. He is no longer fully human, and thus cannot be ended by human means.”

A knot forms in my stomach. “Then how do I stop him?”

Yulin’s gaze returns to me, piercing and steady. “By breaking what anchors him. His strength is not only spiritual. It is emotional. He must be made fragile. Unraveled. When his inner balance collapses, his vessel will fail. Only then can death claim him.”

I shake my head slightly. “I do not know how to do that.”

“You will,” Yulin says simply. “You have already seen the cracks he hides.”

They lift one long, luminous hand and gesture faintly toward the horizon. “He is within the place you could not enter. The sealed room. The door that refused you.”

My fingers tighten reflexively around the key still resting in my palm.

“You must go soon,” Yulin continues, urgency threading through their words. “Time is thinning. If Akin remains bound, the spiritual world will collapse into the physical. When that happens, nothing remains. No kingdoms. No memories. No light.”

My heart pounds. “And if I free Akin,” I ask, dread coiling around the thought, “what then?”

“There will be release,” Yulin says. “Violent. Absolute. Life will be stripped away in a vast radius, as it was here, but greater.”

Images of Gungara flood my mind. The streets. The people. Nyore. Tariro. Chipiri. The villagers. I inhale sharply, understanding settling into place like a blade sliding home.

I will have to make them flee.

Yulin does not say it. They do not need to. The truth blooms painfully on its own.

“I trust you, little light,” Yulin says, their voice softening once more. “And because time is cruel, I will not leave you yet.”

Before I can ask what they mean, their form begins to blur, light folding inward, streams of blue and white flowing toward me like living threads.

“I will remain within you,” they continue. “As I did moments ago. My remaining strength will anchor to your spirit. As long as your mind does not break, your body will endure.”

A tremor runs through me, equal parts awe and fear. “That will trap you,” I say. “Like Akin.”

“Perhaps,” Yulin replies. “But trust is not without risk. And I choose you.”

Tears spill freely now. “I will not waste it,” I promise. “I swear it.”

“That is enough,” Yulin says gently. “Go. The path is narrow, but it is yours.”

The light surges forward, and for a brief instant, I feel as though the moon itself presses against my chest, dissolving into warmth and resolve. Then the forest rushes back around me. The air is cool. The ground is solid beneath my feet. I stagger, catching myself against a tree, heart racing.

Yulin is gone from sight, but not from me.

I step out of the forest slowly, the key secured, my thoughts spinning. When Nyore’s hut comes into view, smoke curling softly from its roof, the familiarity nearly breaks me. In the span of two hours, I have died, lived, been healed, forgiven, and entrusted with the fate of the world.

I stand there for a long moment, breathing, before I force myself forward.

I push aside the woven curtain of Nyore’s hut and step inside, and the warmth of the fire meets me like a delayed welcome. For a single breath, I allow myself to believe that I have returned to something simple. Then Tariro turns toward me.

She is standing near the low table, her hands empty, her posture tense in a way I recognize too well. She has been searching for me. Her eyes travel over my face first, relief flickering there, and then they drop to my shoulders, my arms, my legs. The relief fractures almost instantly.

“Xia,” she says, and my name sounds thinner than usual in her mouth. “What happened to you?”

I follow her gaze without looking down. I already know what she sees. The fabric of my clothes is torn and darkened with old blood. The edges are stiff where they dried. My sleeves hang unevenly, split where blades caught me. I am whole beneath them, unmarked, but the lie of my body tells a different story.

“I am fine,” I say, too quickly.

She steps closer. Her fingers hover near my arm without touching it, as if she is afraid I might break apart under her hands. “You are not,” she answers softly. “Your clothes look like you walked out of a grave.”

I exhale slowly. The hut feels smaller now, the fire louder. “Sit,” I tell her, gesturing toward the mat. “Please.”

She does not sit at first. She studies my face, searching for pain that is no longer there. “Where were you?” she asks. “We came back from training, and you were gone. Nyore said you went to fetch water. That was a long time ago.”

“I know,” I reply. I move farther inside and set my spear against the wall. The wood is still warm where my hand held it for so long. “I was attacked.”

Her breath catches audibly. “By guards.”

“Not guards,” I say. “Assassins.”

Her eyes widen. “From Gungara.”

“From The Community,” I correct. “Blades. Three of them.”

She sits then, abruptly, as if her legs finally fail her. “No,” she whispers. “They would not come here. Not now.”

“They did,” I answer. I lower myself across from her. “They tried to kill me. One of them was Mundra.”

The name lands heavily between us. Tariro’s face drains of color. “Mundra is dead,” she says slowly, as if testing the idea. “He would never…”

“He did,” I repeat. “I recognized him.”

Silence stretches. The fire pops, sending sparks upward. Tariro presses her hands together, knuckles whitening.

“How are you alive?” she asks at last.

I hesitate. The truth presses against my teeth, immense and impossible, and I swallow it back down. “I ran,” I say instead. “I led them into the forest. They wounded me badly. I thought I was going to die.”

Her gaze does not leave mine. “And then.”

“And then I meditated,” I continue. “I prayed to the spirit of the moon. One last time. I asked for nothing. I only thanked them.”

Her eyes glisten. “And they answered you.”

“Not with words,” I say carefully. “But with a blessing. Enough to save me.”

She leans back slightly, as if the weight of that presses against her chest. “Yulin,” she murmurs. “They protected you.”

“Yes,” I answer. It is true, even if incomplete.

Tariro lifts her head again, resolve already beginning to take shape beneath the fear. “Then listen to me,” she says. “If the Community sent Blades after you, this is bigger than us. Bigger than the village. You cannot stay here.”

“I know,” I reply. “I am not going to.”

She blinks. “What do you mean?”

“I have to go inside The Community,” I say. “Alone if needed. Masimba is there. He is the one pulling the strings. He pretended to be Gudo. He sent the assassins. He is controlling Gungara from the shadows.”

Tariro shakes her head. “That is madness. You cannot walk back into that place.”

“I have to,” I say. “I also have to warn the people there. They must flee Gungara if they want to live.”

Her brows knit together. “Why?”

I choose my words with care. “Because when Masimba dies, something terrible will happen. Something that will kill everything around him.”

Her eyes sharpen. “You are lying to me.”

“I am not,” I say quietly.

“You are trying to scare me away,” she insists. “You think if you make it sound impossible, I will stay here and wait.”

I look down at my hands, at how steady they are now. “I wish that were true.”

“Then let me come with you,” she says immediately. “I know the halls. I know the people. I can help you find him faster. And I want to find Shungu.”

The name twists painfully inside me. “Tariro,” I say, “no.”

“He will listen to me,” she continues, her voice gaining strength. “He will leave if I ask him to. I know he will.”

“And if he does not,” I ask.

She falters for half a second. “Then I will still try.”

I shake my head. “You cannot be there when Masimba dies.”

“Why,” she presses. “Because of this vague danger you refuse to explain.”

I close my eyes briefly. “Because everything in a large perimeter will die,” I say. “I do not know how or why. I only know it will happen.”

She stares at me. “That is too convenient.”

I open my eyes again and meet her gaze fully. “I swear to you,” I say. “On everything I am.”

Her shoulders sag slightly. She searches my face one last time, then exhales. “All right,” she says. “I believe you.”

Relief flickers through me, sharp and brief. “Then you will stay.”

“No,” she replies. “I will come with you. And when you find him, I will leave. I promise.”

Fear tightens my chest immediately. “Tariro…”

She leans forward. “You never walk away from danger alone,” she says. “You taught me that.”

I look at her for a long moment. Her determination is quiet but unmovable. I nod once. “All right,” I say. “But you follow my lead.”

She smiles faintly. “I always do.”

The woven curtain shifts behind us.

“You do,” Nyore says calmly, stepping inside. “Both of you.”

We turn toward her in unison. She does not look surprised. Only tired.

“I heard everything,” she continues. “I waited because interruptions waste time.”

“Nyore,” I begin.

She raises one hand. “No explanations. No arguments.” Her gaze moves between us, sharp and assessing. “You were each supposed to lead a team during the uprising. You will not.”

Tariro stiffens. “Then who will?”

“I will find replacements,” Nyore says. “Two of the strongest women. They are ready. You have done enough.”

She turns toward the door again. “Prepare quietly. Both of you.”

Then she is gone, leaving the fire crackling and the weight of what comes next settling heavily around us.

The woven curtain lifts again, and this time it is Chipiri who steps inside Nyore’s hut. The night follows him in, cool and dense, carrying with it the murmur of many restrained voices outside. He pauses just past the threshold, as if measuring the room before entering it fully.

“They’re ready,” he says without preamble. His voice is low but steady, shaped by purpose rather than excitement. “All of them.”

I straighten instinctively. Tariro does the same beside me.

“The teams are in position,” Chipiri continues. “They’re waiting for their leaders to give the signal and manage the advance. No one moves until then.”

Nyore’s stool is empty near the fire, but her presence lingers in the ordered calm of the space. Chipiri steps farther in, rolling one shoulder as if loosening tension held there for too long.

“Three teams,” he says, looking from Tariro to me. “Each is assigned to one barrage surrounding Gungara. Once those are destroyed, the river will reclaim the city. The flooding will force everyone out—guards, advisors, the king himself. We arrest them when they flee. No siege. No street fighting.”

He exhales quietly. “As little blood as possible.”

“And the fourth team,” I ask, though I already know.

His mouth tightens briefly. “They’re not fighters. Not really. They’ll move through the city once the alarm spreads. They’ll warn people to flee. Say there’s a rebellion, say the water is coming. Panic will do what weapons cannot.”

Tariro nods slowly. “People will listen.”

“They will if they want to live,” Chipiri answers.

There is a pause, heavy but not uncertain. Everything is aligned too cleanly for doubt to find easy ground. He looks at us more carefully now, his eyes lingering on my torn clothes, on the way Tariro stands half a step closer to me than usual.

“You’re quiet,” he remarks. There is a trace of dry humor in it, but concern sits beneath. “That doesn’t suit either of you on a night like this.”

Before either of us can answer, the curtain shifts again.

Nyore enters, flanked by two women. I recognize them immediately. Strong shoulders. Calm eyes. Their spears are held with familiarity rather than display. These are not fighters who need to prove anything.

Chipiri turns, frowning. “Mother?”

Nyore inclines her head slightly. “Chipiri.”

His gaze flicks to the women, then back to her. “Why are they here?”

“They will lead two of the teams,” Nyore replies evenly.

Silence drops like a stone.

Chipiri’s brows knit together. “That makes no sense. Xia and Tariro are—”

“Are not leading tonight,” Nyore interrupts, her tone gentle but immovable.

He looks at me then, confusion sharp in his eyes. “Xia?”

I hold his gaze. “Trust her,” I say simply.

“And trust us,” Tariro adds.

Chipiri lets out a slow breath through his nose. “You are asking me to change the spine of the operation an hour before it begins.”

Nyore steps closer to him. “I am asking you to trust that I would not do so without reason.”

He rubs a hand over his jaw. “What reason?”

“There are paths you do not need to walk to lead others,” she says. “Only to make space for them.”

His eyes move between the four of us now. I can see the calculation behind them, the way he weighs risk against conviction. “If this is about fear,” he says carefully, “we all share it.”

“It is not fear,” I answer. “It is a necessity.”

“That is not an explanation,” he replies.

“It is the only one you will get,” Tariro says softly.

The two women beside Nyore remain silent, unshaken. They stand like anchors already set in the night.

Chipiri closes his eyes for a brief moment. When he opens them again, something has settled. Not certainty, but acceptance.

“All right,” he says. “I trust you.”

The words cost him something. I see it in the way his shoulders lower afterward, as if releasing control he has carried alone for too long.

He turns to the two women. “You’ll take the eastern and southern barrages. Follow the plan exactly. If anything changes, you retreat.”

They nod in unison.

Nyore places a hand briefly on Chipiri’s arm. “You have done well,” she tells him. Not as a mother soothing a child, but as a strategist acknowledging another.

He huffs quietly. “Let’s hope the river agrees.”

We move together toward the entrance. Outside, the night is alive with restrained motion, figures standing in clusters, torches hooded, weapons held low. When we step out, heads turn. Eyes search for confirmation.

Chipiri raises one hand. “Positions,” he says.

The village exhales as one and begins to move.

I stand for a moment beside Tariro, the weight of everything pressing in. Gungara looms somewhere beyond the dark, unaware that the river is about to remember its strength.

“Be careful,” she murmurs.

“You too,” I reply.

Then we separate, each toward our chosen shadow, and the night closes around us as the operation begins.

…

The building of The Community rises out of the dark like a block of frozen night, its stone walls swallowing what little moonlight escapes the clouds. By the time Tariro and I reach the narrow street that leads to its main entrance, the sounds of the village are already distant, muffled, as if the world has decided to hold its breath.

We stop a few steps away from the door.

For a brief moment, I simply look at it. This place has always felt wrong to me—too rigid, too silent, like something built to keep truths locked away rather than protect people. Now I know that it hides more than rules and fear. It hides Masimba.

Tariro breaks the silence first, her voice low but steady. “We proceed as planned. You go to the men’s dormitories, I’ll take the women’s side. We tell everyone to run. No explanations, no arguments. Just run for their lives.” She swallows, then adds, “We meet back in the hall.”

I nod, forcing my focus back into my body, into the now. “Be careful.”

She looks at me, really looks at me, her eyes shining with something fierce and fragile at once. “I will.”

There is no embrace, no lingering hesitation. We both know better than to cling to goodbyes.

We split in silence, each disappearing into a different corridor of the building, the stone swallowing our footsteps as The Community prepares, unknowingly, to face its end.