The night before they left, the air in Amara's apartment felt heavier than usual. New York's lights flickered faintly through the curtains, and the city hummed below — a thousand engines, a thousand ambitions. Yet in that small room, there was only silence.
Chuka stood by the window, his reflection merging with the skyline. "If we do this," he said quietly, "there's no going back. Once we're in Nigeria, we'll be off the grid. No permits. No press. No Chief Roman."
Amara leaned against the table, arms folded, her expression unreadable. "That's the point, isn't it? He doesn't own the past."
"He thinks he does," Chuka murmured. "And he's funding half the archaeological boards in the country. If he finds out what we're doing—"
"He'll stop us," she finished, a faint edge in her voice. "Just like he stopped my mother before she died."
That silenced him. For a moment, neither spoke. Outside, thunder rolled over the Hudson — a slow, distant growl.
Amara's gaze softened. "My mother believed the Nok relics were more than artifacts. She thought they were part of a network — something ancient, something alive. Your discovery in Jos proves she was right. My father can't be the one to control that."
Chuka turned toward her. "You're sure you want to do this?"
Her answer was steady. "I'm sure."
He exhaled slowly, nodding. "Then we leave before dawn."
---
They flew out quietly, their departure disguised as a university research trip. The jet that carried them was small, chartered under a false foundation name. Amara handled the logistics effortlessly — her privilege granting her invisibility in the world her father had built.
The pilot didn't ask questions. The less he knew, the better.
Or so they thought...
When they touched down in Kaduna, the heat struck them like a physical force — dry and relentless, carrying the scent of dust and petrol. From there, they traveled north, leaving behind the city's chaos for the open highlands. By the time they reached the edge of the Jos Plateau, the air had changed — thinner, cooler, charged with something neither could explain.
The land stretched endlessly before them: ridges of red earth, acacia trees bent by the wind, and the haunting cry of distant hornbills. The terrain grew rougher as they moved deeper into the wilderness, following coordinates Chuka had pieced together from his earlier dig — a pattern buried in his field notes that only made sense now.
As dusk fell, they camped beneath a cluster of low hills. The air was cooler here, the horizon painted in fire and violet. Amara sat near the campfire, scrolling through old maps on her tablet. "It's strange," she said. "Satellite scans show nothing unusual about the valley. But your field readings—"
"—say otherwise," Chuka finished, leaning beside her. "Magnetic interference. Energy spikes. Almost rhythmic."
She looked up at him, the firelight dancing in her eyes. "Do you think it's real?"
He hesitated. "I think… it's older than language. Maybe older than the Nok themselves."
They fell quiet, the wind whispering through the dry grass. Somewhere beyond the hills, a faint rumble echoed — not thunder this time, but something deeper. A vibration.
Amara frowned. "You hear that?"
Chuka's eyes narrowed. "Yes. The ground's… resonating."
They stood together, scanning the horizon. Far away, a faint shimmer glowed where the land dipped — soft and pulsing, like the heartbeat of the earth.
"That's it," he whispered. "The valley."
---
By morning, they were on the move again, the truck bouncing along a dirt track that barely existed. The sun rose behind them, turning the world to molten gold.
When they finally reached the valley, Chuka felt something shift — not in the earth, but in himself. The place was circular, enclosed by ridges of blackened stone. The soil was dark red, streaked with veins of metallic dust. The air vibrated faintly, like a low hum just below hearing.
Amara stepped forward, shading her eyes. "It looks like a crater."
"Or a scar," Chuka murmured.
He crouched, scooping a handful of earth. It shimmered faintly in the light. "Iron and something else. Not meteorite — terrestrial, but altered."
They began to explore, marking coordinates, setting up instruments. The deeper they moved into the valley, the stronger the vibration grew — rhythmic, almost like a pulse. Birds flew overhead, startled into flight for no reason they could see.
Then Amara stopped. "Chuka… look."
Half-buried near a rock formation was a small statue — clay, weathered, unmistakably Nok. But its design was different. Its eyes were hollow, the spiral carved into its chest glowing faintly in the light.
Chuka knelt beside it, brushing away dust with trembling hands. "It's identical to the Jos relic," he said in disbelief. "Down to the markings."
Amara crouched beside him, her voice barely above a whisper. "Two relics. Two sites. They were connected."
The ground beneath them gave a soft shudder — a breath. The air thickened, the wind shifting in strange patterns. For a fleeting second, Amara thought she saw something in the dust — shapes, faces, a swirl of movement. Then it was gone.
Chuka rose slowly, heart pounding. "It's reacting to us."
Amara's eyes met his. "Or calling to something else."
The valley fell silent again, as if holding its breath.
Far above, the pilot circled once before turning back toward Kaduna. His hand trembled as he keyed a short transmission into his encrypted console.
> "Landing complete. Passengers secure. Destination confirmed — Jos plateau."
Hours later, that message would cross the Atlantic. It would reach a private line in New York.
And in a glass tower overlooking the Hudson, Chief Roman's phone would buzz — beginning the discovery that would change everything.