The Roman estate in Manhattan stood silent beneath the pale morning light.
Tall windows framed the skyline like a painting — glass and steel shimmering against the mist rising from the Hudson. Inside, the mansion felt colder than usual. Every sound — the faint hum of electricity, the whisper of the HVAC — pressed against Amara Roman's skin as though the house itself were breathing.
She sat alone in her father's study.
The scent of polished mahogany and old paper clung to the air, mingling with the faint static that had followed her since dawn.
On the desk before her lay the pendant — a small fragment of metal, dull gray, veined faintly with gold.
She had found it weeks ago among the wreckage of the containment chamber, after everything fell apart — after Chuka disappeared.
It shouldn't have survived the blast, but somehow it had.
And somehow, it had changed her.
For the past three nights, she hadn't been able to sleep.
Every time she closed her eyes, she saw light beneath stone — a pulse running through the earth, slow and ancient.
Sometimes she heard a voice too, distant but familiar. It never said her name, yet she knew it was calling her.
Now, as morning settled over Manhattan, the hum returned.
It began softly — a vibration under her ribs, growing stronger until her fingers trembled. The pendant on the desk vibrated once, then glowed faintly. She reached for it.
Her reflection in the desk's glass surface flickered — for a moment, her pupils caught the same faint golden ring she had seen in Chuka's eyes.
Her breath caught.
"Not again," she whispered. "Not now."
But it was too late.
A wave of warmth rippled through her, carrying images that weren't hers — red earth, winding rivers, wind over stone. She could feel him there, beneath that sky. Chuka. Alive. Awake.
The pulse in her chest aligned with something far away — steady, certain, alive.
And for a heartbeat, she swore the distance between them disappeared.
A voice stirred within her mind — not his, but older, layered like an echo in time:
> The others will feel you now.
Her grip tightened on the pendant. "Who's there?" she whispered. "What others?"
The silence that followed was heavier than the question.
She set the metal fragment down, its faint hum lingering even after she released it.
Across the room, the door creaked open.
Her father's assistant — tall, immaculate, his expression neutral — stepped in. "Miss Roman," he said softly, "your father requests you in the west wing. He's been… concerned."
Amara nodded, hiding the tremor in her hand. "Tell him I'll be there soon."
The man hesitated. "He also asked if you've been sleeping."
She forced a small smile. "Tell him I sleep fine."
When the door shut, her mask slipped.
Her heart was still racing. The hum was still there — constant, alive, responding to every thought.
She turned toward the window.
From the Roman tower's upper floor, the city stretched endlessly — taxis, cranes, the ceaseless rhythm of civilization. But somewhere beneath all that noise, she could feel the earth. The pulse below Manhattan wasn't natural — it was resonating with something deep in Jos, answering Chuka's awakening across the ocean.
> He's awake, the whisper came again, clearer this time. And the Heart remembers.
She pressed her palm to the glass. A faint pattern of light rippled across it, following her touch before fading.
Amara swallowed hard.
She knew what that meant — the same energy that had infected the relic was now inside her.
A voice from her memory surfaced — her father's, cold and resolute:
> "The Amours aren't myths, Amara. They're keys. Whoever learns to control them controls the world itself."
She had never believed him. Not until now.
The pendant flickered once more, its glow dimming like a heartbeat fading beneath the skin.
And in that instant, she made a silent vow:
If her father was still chasing the power Chuka tried to protect —
then she would find Chuka first.
Before Chief Roman did.
Outside, a storm gathered over Manhattan, dark clouds rolling in from the sea.
The first drop of rain struck the glass as Amara turned away from the window, unaware that across the world, the same wind stirred the dust over the Jos Plateau.
Two awakenings.
One connection.
And a silence between them that no ocean could hold.
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