Ayàndá – The Child of Destiny

Written by SpecialMide

The boy was gone.

In his place now stood a man carved by war, by loss, and by the silent fire of destiny.

Ayàndá, now twenty, moved through the forest like the wind itself — silent, sure, and dangerous. His dreadlocks fell over a face no longer uncertain. His body bore the marks of countless battles — scars that told stories of nights he should not have survived.

The village had changed, too. What was once peaceful now lived under quiet fear. Raids from neighboring clans had increased. Food was scarce. Hope was even scarcer. But every time Ayàndá walked through the marketplace, people looked at him — not as a savior, but as a reminder of something ancient and powerful they could not understand.

He was no longer the boy who asked questions. He was the one others feared might hold the answers.

That night, under a dim moon, he trained alone near the riverbank — the same river where he once spoke with Alaba as a child. His spear danced in his hands, cutting through the air in a rhythm that matched his heartbeat. Each strike carried precision, each turn laced with memory.

Then a rustle.

“Still restless?” a voice said from the shadows. Alaba stepped forward, older now, beard streaked with grey, but his eyes still sharp as ever.

Ayàndá didn’t stop moving. “Rest is for those who feel safe. We’re not.”

Alaba chuckled softly. “You speak like a king.”

“Then maybe I’m tired of being a ghost.” Ayàndá finally lowered his spear. “You trained me for years, old man. But you still hide things. Who was my mother really? Why do outsiders still come for me?”

Alaba’s face hardened. “Because your bloodline is not forgotten. You are tied to a throne — not here, not now, but one that was stolen long before you were born.”

Ayàndá turned to the moonlight, eyes narrowed. “Then it’s time I took it back.”

The forest fell silent. Even the river seemed to pause.

Moments later, a horn echoed in the distance — deep, metallic, unnatural. Alaba’s expression shifted to alarm. “That sound… it’s not from our world.”

Then came the rumble of machines — distant engines tearing through the forest. Bright lights cut through the trees, blinding. Men in tactical gear — outsiders from the city — emerged, rifles raised, voices cold and commanding.

Ayàndá’s grip tightened around his spear.

The lead soldier stepped forward. “Ayàndá of Òkè-Ìrá — you’re under arrest, by order of the federal council. Come quietly.”

Ayàndá smirked, his eyes burning with defiance. “You came all the way from the city for one man?”

The soldier tilted his head. “Not a man. A weapon.”

And before the next breath, Ayàndá moved. The spear flew like lightning, slicing through the first guard’s rifle. He dove, rolled, disarmed another with brutal efficiency — no hesitation, no mercy. Alaba’s staff glowed faintly as he joined the fight, warding off bullets with bursts of ancient energy.

But there were too many. Helicopters roared overhead. Floodlights turned night into white fire.

Alaba yelled, “Go! To the shrine — the one your mother built!”

Ayàndá hesitated, torn between duty and the old man who raised him.

“Now, boy!”

He turned and vanished into the trees. Bullets chased his shadow, but none caught him.

By the time he reached the shrine — a ruined temple deep within the forest — the mark on his wrist burned again. He fell to his knees, clutching it, as the same visions returned: the queen in red, the serpent of fire, the golden throne bathed in blood.

He screamed — not from pain, but awakening.

And when his eyes opened, they glowed faintly gold.

Ayàndá was no longer running from his past.

He was becoming it.