I. The Dream
The night pressed heavy on Adaora’s room.
Outside, the crickets sang, and the wind rustled the leaves of the old mango tree. But inside, Adaora’s sleep was far from peaceful.
In her dream, she stood barefoot in a forest glowing with silver mist. The air shimmered, alive with hissing whispers. Before her lay a pool of water so still it looked like a mirror. When she bent over it, her reflection stared back—but her eyes were yellow, slitted, cold.
A figure emerged from the mist—her mother. Dressed in white, barefoot, face pale as bone.
“Adaora,” her mother said softly, “you must control it. The blood of the Eke Nneka runs strong in you. Once awakened, it cannot be undone.”
Adaora shook her head. “Mama, I don’t want this! I want to be normal!”
The woman’s voice echoed like the wind through hollow trees. “Normal is not your destiny. The serpent chooses its vessel. You were born under the mark. The coil is yours to bear.”
The ground began to tremble. From the shadows, snakes of gold and silver slithered toward her, surrounding her legs, rising higher. Their scales shimmered like moonlight.
“No! Leave me alone!” Adaora screamed.
She jolted awake, gasping. Her bedsheet was soaked with sweat, her heart hammering. She clutched her arms — and froze.
Thin greenish lines crawled faintly across her skin, like veins of light.
“No… not again,” she whispered, pressing her palms together.
She began to hum the prayer her grandmother had taught her — a melody older than language.
Gradually, the light dimmed. The lines faded. The girl remained, trembling, afraid of what she was becoming.
II. The Gossip
By morning, the school was buzzing.
“Did you hear? Adaora fainted last night!”
“No, I heard she’s possessed!”
“They say her eyes turn green when she’s angry!”
Rumors spread like wildfire. No one knew who started them, but fear had a way of finding roots where truth was weak.
Emeka heard it too. At first, he dismissed it. But when he entered class and saw Adaora’s empty seat, a cold unease crept into him.
During break, he found her walking toward the school gate, alone as always. Her face was pale, her movements tense.
“Wait,” he called out.
Adaora stopped but didn’t turn.
“I’m sorry,” he said quietly. “For yesterday. I shouldn’t have bothered you.”
She sighed. “It’s not your fault, Emeka.”
“Then why do you push everyone away? What are you afraid of?”
That question hung between them. She turned slowly, eyes glinting with something he couldn’t name—fear, sorrow, or warning.
“You wouldn’t understand.”
“Then make me,” he said, surprising himself. “Let me try.”
For a moment, she looked like she might cry. Then she whispered, “You’re kind, Emeka. But kindness doesn’t survive near me.”
She walked away, leaving him speechless.
III. The Scar
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