Chapter 6: Into the Rift

The warship docked at the capital's edge, its hull groaning as it kissed stone stained with salt and grime. Kente stepped onto the pier, boots sinking into damp muck, the air heavy with a hum he couldn't place—juju, thick and alive, threading through the city's black spires. His ribs ached from WanLanden's hit, a dull throb under his patched tunic, but he kept moving, eyes tracing the towers carved with runes that flickered like lantern glow. Old Brass was dust and rust; this was something else—sharp, looming, a city that breathed power.

Tamara shuffled beside him, bread clutched tight, crumbs dusting his fingers. "This the capital? Bigger'n I thought—kinda scary." His voice wobbled, eyes darting to the crowd—Sturmguards in gleaming armor, hawkers shouting over a sea of faces.

Chioma's canines glinted, her gaze cutting through the bustle. "Big don't mean friendly. Smells like trouble." She flexed her hands, claws catching light, ready for it.

Prophet Mirror trailed behind, cloak brushing stone, his dark eyes scanning slow—Falther's brother, always quiet, illusions flickering faint at his fingertips like a habit he couldn't shake. Four of 'em left—Old Brass's scraps after the Watchmen tore through Almass, leaving Sophia and the rest in blood and ash.

Miss Wolo led, her boots steady, crescent pin glinting under a gray sky. "Eyes up," she said, voice low, cutting through the dock's din. "Capital's no rest stop—we're here for the exam."

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Kente's hand brushed the tag in his pocket—Zuri's tag, warm, humming soft, a soul tied to a boy sold to pale shadows. The bead on his forehead pulsed, faint, a quiet beat he didn't question no more—not since the fire, not since Almass. The orphanage lingered in him—cold stone, TheSun's gold robes, Zuri's red eyes fading as Harvesters took him. WanLanden's flames had burned the rest, but the tag stayed, humming through the fog.

They reached a plaza—wide, stone-paved, ringed with statues of priestesses and kings, their spears shimmering juju-warm. A crowd swelled, hundreds strong, murmurs rising like a tide. At the center stood a gate—black iron, runes pulsing, taller than Almass's walls. Miss Wolo stopped, turning to 'em, her lava eyes steady.

"Race rift," she said, nodding at the gate. "Million kilometers—mountains, valleys, all juju-made. Four regions—Old Brass, Mount Brass, Wota Watini, Ananci. You run it, fast as your juju lets you. Top twelve fight after—Sturmguard spots on the line."

Tamara's bread slipped, hitting stone. "A million? We—we're just four!"

"Disadvantage," Chioma muttered, claws twitching. "Others got more—gonna plot us out quick."

Prophet's illusions flared—birds circling, fading fast. "Numbers don't win," he said, voice flat. "Skill does."

Kente gripped the tag, its hum steady. "Why this exam? What's it for?"

Miss Wolo's smirk flickered, sharp. "Capital wants the best—Sturmguards to hold the regions tight. Old Brass bleeds for it; you prove it don't bleed for nothin'." She paused, eyes narrowing. "Gate opens dawn—rest 'til then."

The crowd parted, and Kente caught a flash—silver eyes, glinting soft, watching from a stall piled with scrap. Zaria—Old Brass girl, necklace swaying, here to see the show. Her gaze met his, a nod, then gone in the shuffle. His chest loosened, just a bit—she'd made it too.

They bunked in a stone hall—cold walls, narrow cots, the city's hum seeping through. Kente sat, tag in hand, its warmth a quiet pull—Zuri out there, somewhere, hoping he'd lived. The bead pulsed, softer now, no words, just a hum tying him to somethin' bigger. Tamara munched bread, muttering, "Gonna trip over my own feet." Chioma stretched, claws out, grinning faint. "I'll claw my way up." Prophet stood by the window, illusions dancing—strongest of 'em, for now.

Kente lay back, tag pressed to his chest, the rift's shadow looming. Dawn'd bring the race—mountains, plots, Old Brass's fight to stand tall.