The silence between them stretched like a living thing, pulsing faintly with the rhythm of the earth itself.
Outside, the wind howled across the plateau — though there was no storm. The sound felt more like breath, ancient and heavy, exhaled from the soil that had birthed them both.
Dr. Nworie lit an old lantern, its yellow glow flickering over carved symbols on the walls. They weren't just decorations. They were maps — spirals, waves, and sigils drawn from deep memory, etched by hands that trembled with reverence.
Chuka studied them, his heart tightening. "These markings… they're similar to the ones I saw on the slab."
The old man smiled faintly. "Of course. You think you discovered them? No, my boy. The Nok only remembered fragments. The full language belongs to something older — something that remembers itself."
He placed a hand on the wall. The carvings shimmered faintly in answer to his touch.
Chuka stepped closer. "You can make them respond."
"I don't make them do anything," Dr. Nworie said softly. "They listen, just as they listen to you. The earth doesn't obey commands — it resonates with will. That's the difference between wielding power and understanding it."
The air hummed with the truth of those words.
Chuka lowered his voice. "How long have you known, Professor? About the Amours, the relics, all of it?"
Dr. Nworie's face grew still. The firelight threw his features into sharp relief — and for a heartbeat, Chuka thought he saw something impossible: golden lines beneath the old man's skin, faint and ancient, like rivers buried under flesh.
"Longer than I care to admit," Nworie murmured. "Before you were born, before Roman's first excavation. There have always been those chosen to remember, and those cursed to forget. I was one of the former."
Chuka felt the air tighten. "Then you knew this would happen."
The old man met his gaze. "The moment you unearthed that chamber, the balance shifted. You were always meant to find it. The Heart doesn't call randomly — it calls to blood that can bear its memory."
"But why me?" Chuka asked, his voice almost breaking. "Why not you? Why not someone prepared?"
Dr. Nworie smiled — tired, almost sorrowful. "Because I was prepared. And that's exactly why it could never be me."
Chuka looked down, feeling the weight of the words settle on him.
For a long time, neither spoke.
Then the ground trembled — softly at first, then with growing insistence. Dust trickled from the rafters. Chuka's instincts surged awake. He placed a hand on the floor, and the vibrations formed shapes in his mind — like waves folding through stone, carrying whispers from far below.
"There's movement under the plateau," he said. "Something's… calling."
Dr. Nworie closed his eyes. "Yes. The pulse of awakening. The relics recognize you as one of their own. That tremor isn't just earth — it's the memory of creation re-aligning itself."
He opened a drawer and pulled out a rolled piece of hide. When he unwrapped it, the smell of age and ash filled the room. It wasn't parchment — it was tanned clay-skin, etched with symbols older than language.
At the center, a circle marked with seven sigils, each representing a facet of the divine.
Chuka pointed at one. "That's mine."
The old man nodded. "The Heart of the Plateau — Divine Perception, Divine Step, and the shaping gift. It anchors all the others, because it speaks directly to the ground beneath us."
He traced another. "Roman's relic — Divine Authority and Divine Vitality. The tongue and the flesh. Dangerous when joined."
"And Amara?" Chuka asked.
Dr. Nworie's finger brushed the third sigil. "Healing and Truth. The relic of the soul."
Then he tapped the next — a darker mark, drawn in red ochre that hadn't faded with age. "Divine Protection. Buried beneath the Pacific. A shell forged from the body of a god that fell."
"Then there's Divine Might," Chuka said quietly, tracing the next circle.
"Yes," the professor said. "Frozen under the Andes. A strength meant to rebuild the world — or break it."
He hesitated at the last two sigils — faint, almost erased.
"These…" he whispered, "are the ones lost to time. The records call them Divine Vision and Divine Judgment. They were said to belong to those who decided which souls were worthy of the earth's memory."
Chuka frowned. "So there are eight in total?"
Dr. Nworie nodded. "Yes. The eighth was shattered — hidden deliberately, so that no single being could hold the full pattern. That's why the relics seek each other — they want to become whole again."
The tremor deepened. One of the lamps shattered, flames licking at the air before dying instantly, snuffed out by an unseen force.
The professor straightened slowly. "They've begun to sense your alignment. You've disturbed the long sleep."
Chuka felt his pulse sync with the tremor. His eyes flickered gold again.
He could feel roots beneath the foundation — threads of stone winding through the city, all whispering the same word. Awake.
He stood suddenly, the relic in his hand thrumming with energy.
"I have to stop Roman before he finds the next one."
Dr. Nworie shook his head. "You can't stop him yet. You don't understand your resonance. If you confront him now, the clash of your relics could destroy half of Jos."
Chuka clenched his fists. The markings along his arms flared. The floor trembled, and cracks spidered out from his feet.
"Then teach me," he said, voice trembling between desperation and resolve. "Teach me how to control it."
For a long moment, the old man studied him — then smiled faintly, like someone seeing a prophecy take its first breath.
"I can guide you," he said. "But control isn't something you learn. It's something you remember. The Maker's memory lives in you — you only have to listen."
The lights flickered. The tremor subsided. For a brief instant, Chuka could hear the faint song of the soil — a low, resonant hum like a heartbeat beneath mountains. It was calling him home.
Dr. Nworie placed a hand on his shoulder. "The plateau isn't just earth. It's a gate — one that has waited thousands of years for a hand like yours."
Chuka met his eyes. "A gate to what?"
The old man's expression turned distant. "To the first memory of creation… and the last promise of destruction."
A chill crept through the air. The words echoed like prophecy.
Chuka turned to the doorway, feeling the wind rise again. Dust swirled around his feet, glowing faintly gold where it touched his skin.
"Then I'll open it," he said softly. "But on my terms."
Dr. Nworie bowed his head. "Then may the earth remember mercy."
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