The truck clattered into the heart of Odi’Lale, Stylwater’s oldest district, where the cobbled streets twisted like scars between crumbling colonial facades and newer, slapdash concrete additions. Tin rooftops clinked under the heat. Electric wires dangled like garlands across narrow alleys.

Chinakah eased the truck to a halt beside a group of street vendors, their stalls slumped under the weight of smoked catfish, woven baskets, and bundles of bitterleaf. Women in faded iro and buba watched the travelers with guarded eyes as barefoot children darted past. A drumming circle echoed faintly in the distance, but it was muffled — like everything else in Stylwater — by the thick humidity and a creeping sense of time gone wrong.

Leonotis stuck his head slightly out the window, his expression caught between intrigue and unease. There was color here — dyed fabrics drying on lines, murals of ancestral warriors, and the sharp scent of ata rodo peppers wafting from a nearby chop shop — but there was also ruin. Buildings leaned against each other like weary elders. Nothing was straight. Nothing was clean. The city felt both watched and forgotten, suspended in a lull between gods and governance.

They passed an intersection marked by an ancient tree whose bark had been carved with Ifá symbols. At its base, a shrine cradled offerings — kola nuts, rusted coins, a cracked calabash bowl of gin. Gethii bowed his head as they passed it. Leonotis glanced at him, curious, but said nothing.

And then — the orphanage.

The building squatted behind a rusting iron gate, its bones colonial but exhausted. Time had sucked the life from its plastered skin, leaving behind streaks of mold and grime like war paint. The hand-painted sign overhead, “Stylwater Orphanage: A Home for Hope,” was crooked, the last word half-faded as though even hope had decided to leave early.

Gethii’s expression turned somber as he gazed at the building. “This is it,” he said, his voice low. “I… I grew up here. Back then, though, the administration was different. Old Man Fuzo and his wife ran the place. Stern, but… not unkind.”

They climbed out of the truck, the silence broken only by the distant cries of gulls. As they approached the heavy oak door, it creaked open, revealing a woman with sharp, angular features and eyes that seemed to miss nothing. Her hair was pulled so tightly back into a bun that her forehead gleamed. Her wrapper was crisp, Ankara of deep indigo with the crest of a local civic faction stitched at the hem, a sign that she served some bureaucratic allegiance, though what kind was unclear.

“Can I help you?” she asked, her voice devoid of warmth.

“We’re looking for Director Fuzo,” Gethii said, stepping forward. “I… I used to be in his care.”

The woman’s gaze narrowed. “Director Fuzo and his wife are no longer here. I am the acting director. My name is… Mapoza.”

“Oh,” Gethii said, a flicker of concern in his eyes. “Where did they go?”

“They had to go to the capital a few weeks back,” Mapoza said, her tone clipped. “To… discuss funding with the King.”

Chinakah exchanged a worried glance with Gethii. A trip to the King for funding didn’t sound like a short errand.

“Right,” Gethii said slowly. “Well, we have a young boy here, Leonotis. He needs a place to stay temporarily, until we return from… our own visit to the King.”

Mapoza's gaze flickered to Leonotis, who stood clutching his small bag, looking lost and apprehensive. After a moment of consideration, she nodded curtly. “We have space. There'll be a fee.”

Gethii quickly produced a small pouch of coins. Mapoza accepted it without a word. “How old are you, boy?” she asked Leonotis, her sharp eyes scrutinizing him.

Leonotis opened his mouth to answer, then his eyes flickered to Gethii, a silent reminder passing between them. “I… I just turned ten,” he stammered, feeling a pang of guilt at the lie.

Mapoza’s eyes narrowed, a flicker of shrewd assessment within them, before she gave a curt nod. “Follow me.” She led them through a dimly lit hallway that smelled faintly of mildew and despair. She stopped at a door and pushed it open, revealing a large room filled with rows of narrow, wood-framed beds. A handful of boys, their faces pale and their clothes threadbare, stared at the newcomers with dull eyes.

Chinakah and Gethii helped Leonotis carry his small bag to an empty bed in the corner. The thin mattress looked lumpy and uncomfortable. As they turned to leave, to say their goodbyes, Leonotis suddenly felt a prickling sensation on the back of his neck. He glanced towards the window and caught a fleeting glimpse of a face disappearing behind the tattered curtains.

Gethii, noticing Leonotis’s unease, followed his gaze. “Probably just one of the other kids, hiding,” he said with a reassuring smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes.

They knelt down, one on either side of Leonotis. “Be brave, little one,” Chinakah said, her voice softer than usual. “If everything goes well with the King, we’ll be back to get you in about a month.”

A month felt like an eternity to Leonotis. He nodded, trying to appear braver than he felt.

The director clapped her hands sharply. “Out to the yard, all of you. Chores await.” She gestured for Leonotis to follow the other boys, her gaze already distant.

The orphanage yard was a bleak, dusty patch of ground enclosed by a high metal fence. The other boys moved with a weary resignation. One of them, a skinny boy with hollow eyes, approached Leonotis. “Welcome to hell,” he said, his voice flat. “How old are you?”

“Twelve,” Leonotis blurted out, the carefully rehearsed “ten” completely forgotten in his nervousness.

A flicker of something – hope? – crossed the boy’s gaunt face, but it vanished as quickly as it appeared. “Twelve,” he repeated tonelessly. “Right. If you ever figure out a way to get out of this place, let me know. I've never been able to find one.”

In a shadowy corner of the yard, a young girl with wide, observant eyes watched their interaction.

That night, Leonotis tossed and turned on his lumpy mattress. He drifted into a dream, a vivid image of a beautiful woman with long, flowing hair, but her face remained frustratingly out of focus. “Who are you?” he asked, his voice echoing in the dream. She simply smiled, a sad, knowing smile. “Come to me; we need your help,” she whispered. Then, the scene shifted. The beautiful woman was gone, replaced by his father, his face contorted in pain, wrapped in thick, black tree branches. His father’s eyes glowed with an unnatural green light. “Help me, son,” he rasped, his voice filled with terror.

Leonotis woke with a gasp, the word “Father!” escaping his lips. He sat up, his heart pounding, but the details of the dream had already begun to slip away like water through his fingers. He lay back down, a vague sense of unease clinging to him, and eventually drifted back to sleep.