The walls of the holding cell throbbed with a steady hum, low and mechanical — but beneath it, Chuka could feel another pulse, something older. It wasn't the vibration of engines or generators; it was deeper, almost alive, echoing faintly in his bones.
He'd been counting hours, not days. The windowless room gave no clue to time, but his body knew the rhythm of hunger and exhaustion. The guards came twice daily — once with food, once with silence.
Today, the silence broke.
The door slid open with a hiss, and Dr. Nwankwo's former assistant, Miriam, stepped inside. Her face was pale, her eyes darting toward the corners of the surveillance glass before she dared look directly at him.
"Chuka," she whispered. "You need to listen carefully. I can't stay long."
He rose from the bench, his wrists cuffed, his voice rough. "What's happening upstairs?"
Miriam swallowed hard. "Chief Roman… he's begun the integration process."
Chuka frowned. "Integration?"
She nodded, voice trembling. "He's trying to communicate with the Amour. They've linked it to the resonance system in the Manhattan facility — your blood samples are part of the interface."
A sharp chill ran through Chuka's chest. "My blood—? He's using me?"
"They extracted it while you were sedated," she whispered. "The readings spiked beyond anything we've seen. The relic's responding to it — almost like it recognizes you."
Chuka took a step forward, pulling against his restraints. "Then he's awakening something he doesn't understand. That thing isn't a machine — it's bound energy. If it wakes completely—"
"I know," Miriam said quickly. "But he won't stop. And there's more…"
Her gaze flickered with guilt. "He's sent Amara home."
The words struck harder than he expected. "What?"
"Roman had her released yesterday. Private jet, direct flight to D.C. I think—" she hesitated "—I think he's trying to keep her away from this. From you."
Chuka's throat tightened. "She'll go looking for me."
"I think she already has," Miriam said softly. "The guards said she accessed restricted logs before her flight. Something about the Maker's bloodline."
The phrase made his pulse stutter. "Maker's bloodline…" He remembered the markings from the excavation — the runes that had burned faintly when he touched the relic. The priests had written of a vessel — a chosen bloodline capable of carrying divine essence. He'd thought it was myth. But now, hearing it from her, he knew.
It wasn't coincidence.
It was legacy.
Miriam glanced toward the door. "I have to go. They'll trace the security feed soon. But listen to me — the relic reacts to you, not him. If Roman pushes too hard, it might—"
The lights flickered violently, cutting her off. The hum in the room deepened into a rumble that seemed to rise from beneath the floor.
Both of them froze.
Through the glass wall that separated his cell from the adjoining lab, the containment chamber began to glow. The Amour — sealed in its levitation cradle — pulsed with gold light, veins branching across its surface like living fire.
Then came the voice — low, layered, and ancient:
> "He should not touch what was sealed by blood."
Miriam gasped, stepping back. "It's speaking again—"
Chuka felt his pulse sync with the rhythm of the relic. Every beat of his heart seemed to pull the glow brighter, stronger. The cuffs around his wrists vibrated, heating against his skin.
"Get out, Miriam," he said urgently. "Go!"
She stumbled toward the door as alarms began to blare. The glass between them shimmered, distorting his reflection — and in that warped surface, Chuka saw something that wasn't his own face.
A man — or what looked like one — stood in the reflection beside him. Bronze-skinned, eyes like molten light, wearing ceremonial markings down his neck.
> "The Maker's blood returns," the voice said. "The seal will break with the wrong hand. You must rise, Heir of Dust."
The lights exploded.
Chuka fell to his knees, gripping his head as pain surged behind his eyes. Memories — no, not his — flooded in: the forging of the Amours, the ritual chants, the priests binding their gods within metal and clay. He saw them seal the energy inside, cutting their own palms to write the final command in blood.
And he heard his own voice in that memory, ancient and familiar, whispering the same words the spirit had spoken:
> "The blood remembers."
When he opened his eyes, the room was dark again. Smoke curled through the cracks of the shattered glass. The hum was gone, replaced by an eerie silence.
His restraints had melted clean through.
For the first time since his capture, Chuka stood free — shaken, bleeding, but free.
He looked toward the containment chamber, where the Amour now floated unrestrained, its light dimmed to a gentle pulse — as if waiting.
"Amara," he whispered.
The pulse brightened once — like an answer.
He didn't need anyone to tell him what came next. Chief Roman was awakening something ancient, and only Chuka's blood could stop it.
He turned toward the emergency exit, gripping the melted remnants of his cuffs like weapons. Somewhere beyond those walls, the relics of the Nok were awakening… and Amara was already part of it.
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