The market square was a graveyard of chaos—overturned stalls, yams rolling like lost marbles, and the air thick with the scent of ash and fear. Chuka's heart pounded as he scrambled to his feet, the sigil on his palm flaring with a heat that made his teeth ache. Above, the sky was a fractured mosaic of gold and ash, as if the heavens had been torn open and left to bleed. The voice that had thundered through him—The Eye of Enoch is open. The Watchers stir—still echoed in his skull, alien and heavy.
"Move, boy!" Mama Ife's voice snapped him back. She stood tall despite her age, her faded wrapper a defiant splash of color against the graying world. Her eyes, sharp as polished obsidian, darted to the edge of the market. "They're coming."
Chuka's breath hitched. "Who's coming?" His voice cracked, a child's plea in a world that no longer felt like his.
