The Jos night was colder than he remembered.
The air carried the scent of dust and rain — that faint metallic tang that came just before a storm. Chuka moved through the shadowed streets with his hood drawn low, keeping to the alleys, every muscle tight with exhaustion and fear.
He'd been running for hours since slipping past the soldiers at the old research compound. His mind still burned with fragments of what he'd overheard — Roman's voice, calm and commanding, ordering a "communication link" with the Amour.
They were trying to awaken it.
He needed help — and there was only one person in the world who might believe him.
Dr. Kalu Nwankwo.
Archaeologist. Historian.
The man who'd once called him "the son I never had."
The professor lived just outside town, in an old colonial bungalow at the edge of Rayfield — surrounded by baobab trees and silence. The government had forgotten him after retirement, but the local children still whispered that he "spoke to ghosts in his house."
When Chuka finally reached the old iron gate, it was past midnight. The house stood dark except for a single oil lamp flickering behind a window curtain.
He hesitated only for a heartbeat before knocking.
The door creaked open. A frail figure in a faded wrapper and scarf peered out — Mama Uche, the housekeeper.
Her eyes widened the moment she saw him. "Jesu! Chuka? They said you were taken—"
"Please, Mama," he whispered, glancing over his shoulder. "Is the doctor home?"
Before she could answer, a deep voice spoke from inside.
"Let him in."
Dr. Kalu appeared at the end of the corridor, his thin frame draped in a wool shawl, his eyes sharp even in the dim light.
Within minutes, Chuka was sitting before the old man's fire, a steaming cup of bitter coffee in his hands, recounting everything — the artifact's transport, the experiments, the glow beneath his skin, and the soldiers that hunted him.
When he finished, the room was silent except for the hiss of the lamp.
Kalu leaned back, fingers steepled beneath his chin. "So, Roman has begun the ritual of communion," he murmured. "That fool does not understand what he toys with."
"You knew," Chuka said softly. "You knew what the Amour was."
The old man's eyes lifted to meet his. "I suspected. You see, my boy, the Nok did not build those relics as ornaments. They were vessels — prisons, perhaps — forged with something older than gods. The Makers, they called themselves. Men who bound divinity to clay."
Chuka frowned. "Makers?"
"Yes," Kalu said. "A bloodline born to shape and seal power. For generations, they disappeared — thought to be extinct. But when I saw how the Amour responded to your touch at the excavation site, I knew…"
He paused, his expression heavy with both awe and sorrow.
"You carry their blood, Chuka."
Chuka's breath caught. "You mean… my family—?"
"The Nok didn't record names, only symbols. But the line survived through those chosen to guard the seals. That is why the relic called to you."
He rose slowly and went to a wooden chest at the far end of the room. From within it, he pulled an object wrapped in goat hide — a carved stone no larger than a man's palm, its surface etched with swirling symbols that seemed to shimmer under the lamplight.
"I kept this for decades," Kalu said, handing it to him. "It came from a site near Riyom — the locals refused to go near it. They said it was a heart that beats under the earth."
Chuka turned the stone over in his hands, feeling the faint warmth beneath his fingers.
"The Heart of the Plateau," Kalu said. "If you follow its pulse, it will lead you to the truth of your blood. But beware, my son — the heart is not silent. It remembers who bound it, and who set it free."
Lightning cracked outside. The power flickered.
"Roman will come for you," the old man said urgently. "His company has eyes everywhere. But if you can reach the caves before him, you may find the seal first. That is your only advantage."
Chuka nodded slowly, gripping the relic. "How will I know the way?"
"The stone will guide you when the time is right. Trust its rhythm. It was made to recognize its Maker."
Thunder rolled across the hills.
Kalu clasped Chuka's shoulder. "You were born to uncover history, my boy. Now you must become it."
The words lingered in Chuka's mind long after he slipped into the storm and vanished into the hills — the stone glowing faintly in his palm, like a living thing.
Behind him, the old professor watched from the doorway, whispering a prayer to ancestors long buried.
> "Guide him well," he murmured to the dark. "The world does not know what wakes beneath its feet."