Chapter 1


    Ola was running.


    His breath came in ragged gasps, his heart pounding so violently it drowned out the world around him. His bare feet pounded the rocky terrain, stinging with each desperate step as he climbed higher up Mt. Azimiliam. Below, his village—his home—had shrunk to a mere speck, swallowed by the vast wilderness stretching beyond the mountain.


    He had no idea how long he had been running. Time had lost meaning. Fear had become his only measure.


    Ola collapsed onto a fallen log, his body trembling with exhaustion. His arms and legs were covered in bruises from tripping over roots and jagged stones. His throat burned with thirst, but water was the last thing on his mind.


    He was a dead boy walking.


    The village would be in chaos by now. The chief’s men would be searching for him. No one had ever dared disrupt Freedom Day, the most sacred festival of the Zula people. And yet, with a single misstep, he had undone centuries of tradition.


    His mind replayed the moment over and over—the wooden latch slipping under his fingers, the door swinging open, the flash of silver as the sacred antelope bounded into the open.


    A heartbeat of silence.


    Then the chief’s voice, thunderous with fury:


    “What have you done?!”


    Ola had never run so fast in his life.


    His friends, Achi and Ankol, had vanished the moment the chief appeared, their loyalty crumbling like dry leaves in the wind. He couldn’t blame them. They had only wanted a glimpse of the fabled creature, a rare and mystical being said to bring fortune to the village when sacrificed to the gods.


    But Ola had done more than glimpse it.


    He had set it free.


    The enormity of his actions weighed on him like a stone. He could already picture the looks of horror and anger on the faces of the elders. They would demand punishment—severe punishment. Perhaps a public flogging. Perhaps exile. Maybe worse. The Zula people believed that without the silver antelope’s sacrifice, disaster would descend upon them. Crops would wither. Children would fall ill. The spirits of their ancestors would turn their backs on them.


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    Ola shuddered, his mind spiraling into dark possibilities.


    The wind howled through the trees, carrying distant sounds from the village—a drumbeat, shouts of alarm, the wail of a woman. His heart clenched. Had the search begun? Were they already on his trail?


    He glanced up the mountain. The dense forest loomed above, whispering with unseen dangers. Wild beasts. Spirits. Curses. Everyone knew that beyond a certain point, Azimiliam was forbidden. The elders spoke of the mountain as if it were alive, an ancient guardian watching over their people. Few who ventured too far ever returned, and those who did were never the same.


    But what choice did he have?


    The only thing more terrifying than the unknown was returning home.


    Ola forced himself to his feet. His legs protested, his muscles aching with every step, but he pushed forward, deeper into the mountain’s embrace. The deeper he went, the quieter the world became. The usual hum of insects, the distant calls of birds, even the rustling of the trees—all seemed to fade, leaving behind an eerie stillness.


    The scent of damp earth and moss filled his nostrils as he pressed onward, weaving between gnarled tree trunks and jagged rocks. His every step felt heavier, as if unseen hands were dragging at his ankles, urging him to turn back.


    Then, suddenly, the stillness shattered.


    From a cave nearby, a low growl rumbled through the trees.


    Ola froze.


    It was not the cry of a jackal or the snarl of a hyena—sounds he had heard in the dead of night back in his village. This was something deeper, heavier, a sound that vibrated in his bones like distant thunder.


    He took a slow, measured breath, willing his body to remain still. His pulse roared in his ears. Shadows shifted at the cave’s entrance, and for a brief moment, he thought he saw something move—something large, something watching.


    A voice in the back of his mind screamed at him: Run!


    Ola bolted. He crashed through the underbrush, branches clawing at his arms and face like vengeful spirits. His feet slipped over loose rocks, but he did not stop. Every rustling leaf, every crackling twig felt like a predator closing in on him.


    He didn’t dare look back.


    Ola ran until his lungs burned and his legs nearly gave out beneath him. He stumbled over a root, barely catching himself before tumbling down a valley. He fell to his knees, his chest heaving, his heartbeat thundering in his ears.


    Silence had returned, but it did nothing to calm him.


    He pressed his forehead against the damp earth, willing himself to breathe. But all he could hear was the chief’s voice from earlier that day, thundering with rage.


    “What have you done?!”


    Tears pricked at his eyes, but he forced them down. Crying would do nothing. He had made his choice. There was no going back now.


    He glanced toward the mountain’s peak, its silhouette looming against the darkening sky. If the stories were true, then beyond this ridge lay the unknown—a land untouched by the village, by the rules that had bound him his entire life.


    If he was to survive, he would have to embrace it.


    Ola wiped the sweat from his brow and took a steadying breath. Then, with renewed determination, he pushed forward, disappearing into the shadows of Mt. Azimiliam.


    The night was just beginning.