The Garden of the Tohunga was a place where time seemed to slow down. It was not a manicured display like the Royal Gardens; it was a wild, breathing library of flora, tended to by the oldest hands in the Empire.
Elder Bura Busara sat cross-legged on a mat of woven reeds.
He was a Manomi of the Elder Stage. His skin was the texture of ancient bark, weathered by a century of sun and soil. His hair was a shock of white wool, and he wore a simple robe made of rough hemp, tied with a sash of living vines that shifted color with his mood.
In front of him sat an Ayo Olopon board.
It was an artifact in its own right—a rectangular wooden board carved with twelve pockets, six on each side. But Bura was not playing against an opponent. He was playing against the wind. He was playing against Aye itself.
"Four seeds in the first house," Bura murmured, his voice sounding like dry leaves skittering on pavement.
He reached into the pocket and picked up the seeds. They were Lumen-seeds, glowing faintly with stored cosmic energy.
"Sow them," he whispered.
He dropped the seeds one by one into the subsequent pockets. Clack. Clack. Clack. Clack.
This was Se-ipunnu—the Reckoning.
It was not the psionic clairvoyance of a Masani, which relied on visions. It was the mathematical and spiritual calculation of Mustakabali (possible futures) based on the patterns of Zamani (the past).
Bura was calculating the probability of the next harvest. The weather patterns were stable. The Ubuntu of the populace was healing after the wedding. The seeds should have landed in a pattern of growth.
But they didn't.
As Bura dropped the final seed into the last pocket, the board shuddered.
The Lumen-seeds in the pocket didn't glow gold. They turned a dull, lifeless grey.
Bura frowned. "Variable error," he grunted. "The soil is warm. Why does the seed shiver?"
He gathered the seeds again. He reset the board. He poured his Manomi Ase into the wood, connecting his consciousness to the rhythm of the earth.
"Show me the variable," Bura commanded. "Show me the Mustakabali."
He played the turn again.
Clack. Clack. Clack... CRACK.
The final seed didn't just land; it split open.
Instantly, a layer of frost bloomed on the wooden board. It spread from the sixth pocket, crawling over the seeds like a fungal infection. The temperature in the garden dropped twenty degrees in a heartbeat. The vines on Bura's sash withered and turned brown.
Bura's eyes widened. He stared at the Ayo board. The seeds weren't just frozen; they were arranged in a jagged, predatory line.
It looked like a set of teeth.
"The Arctic," Bura whispered, his breath steaming in the sudden cold. "The Mirror is not reflecting. It is projecting."
He reached out to touch the frozen seeds. The cold burned his finger—Iku cold. The entropy of a world without a sun.
"The Board is frozen," Bura realized, scrambling to his feet. His old joints popped, but he moved with the urgency of a man who sees a wildfire on the horizon. "The game is no longer about the harvest. It is about the winter."
He grabbed the frozen Ayo board. He had to show the King. The Reckoning was absolute.
The Hall of Ten Thousand Lumen – The Morning Court
Libaax Akoma sat on the High Throne, with Empress Libaax Senan seated beside him on a throne of woven living wood that Omari Imani had commissioned.
The court was boring today, which was a blessing. They were listening to a dispute between two City-Kings regarding water rights.
"My Lord," the City-King of the Delta began, "My neighbor claims the river bends naturally, but I have proof his Manomis coaxed the roots of the mangrove trees to divert the flow!"
"It is called irrigation!" the neighbor argued.
Ahia leaned toward Libaax. "If they don't stop arguing," she whispered, "I'm going to turn their mangroves into cacti."
Libaax hid a smile behind his hand. "Patience, Anyanwu. A river that flows straight is unnatural."
Suddenly, the heavy doors of the hall banged open.
The guards stepped forward, weapons raised, but lowered them immediately when they saw who it was.
Elder Bura Busara hobbled into the hall, clutching his frozen Ayo board. He ignored the City-Kings. He ignored the protocol. He walked straight to the dais.
"Elder Bura?" Libaax stood up, his Blue Aura pulsing with concern. "What is it?"
Bura didn't bow. He slammed the Ayo board onto the steps of the throne.
"Look," Bura wheezed.
Libaax and Ahia descended the steps. They looked at the board. The frost was still spreading, defying the heat of the hall. The seeds were locked in that jagged, shark-tooth formation.
"I played the Reckoning," Bura said, his voice trembling. "I asked for the future of the season. The board gave me... this."
Libaax Senan reached out, hovering her hand over the ice. Her Green Aura flared.
"It feels like the Dildillaac," she whispered, recoiling. "But... heavier. Denser."
"It is not the Dildillaac," Bura said grimly. "The Dildillaac is wind and ghost. This is bone and ice."
Bura looked up at the King.
"The Se-ipunnu does not lie, My Lord. The probability is 99%. The Arctic Mirror is shifting. The reflection is trying to overwrite the original."
"The Asuras," Libaax said, his face hardening into Severity. "Azure warned us. He said they were organizing."
"It is not a raid," Bura warned, pointing a gnarled finger at the frozen seeds. "In the game of Ayo, when the seeds line up like this, it means a 'Capture'. They are not coming to eat, Servitor Supreme."
Bura looked Libaax in the eye.
"They are coming to stay. The Winter is walking."
Libaax looked at the frozen game board, then at the Celestial Lantern above through the repaired glass dome. The golden light suddenly felt very fragile.
"Clear the hall," Libaax commanded, his voice rolling like thunder. "Summon the High Table. Summon Authority Oba. And summon the Iyakar-Tsaro."
He turned to Senan, taking her hand. Her skin was warm, but he could feel the shiver running through her.
"The harvest is over," Libaax said quietly. "Prepare for the storm."