TERMS & TEMPTATION
1174 Words
The next morning brought no peace.
Ama sat in her bedroom, staring at the coffee in her hands as it cooled. The memory of last night lingered like a bruise—warm, sore, impossible to ignore. Kyen’s warning echoed in her head, haunting her more than the strange files or the flickering lights.
“You’re not ready for that answer.”
But something in her gut disagreed. Something told her she had always been tangled in this web. That she hadn’t just stumbled into this story. She’d been born into it.
Her phone buzzed. A message from her younger brother, Jide.
Jide: Mum’s asking about you. Says you’ve been quiet. Come for dinner tonight?
Ama stared at the message. Her thumb hovered over the screen. For a moment, she considered ignoring it. But then she remembered the last time she saw her mother’s eyes—wide, afraid, the day her father died.
She typed back quickly.
Ama: I’ll come.
---
Work was a blur. Kyen stayed locked in his office most of the day. The rest of the staff kept a safe distance from both of them, sensing an undercurrent no one dared name. Ama tried to act normal, but nothing felt real anymore—not the desk beneath her fingers, not the flickering lights, not the quiet presence watching her from behind glass walls.
By evening, she was standing at the door of her family’s townhouse in Surulere.
Her mother, Chioma, opened the door before she could knock.
“Ama,” she said, voice warm but wary. “You look tired.”
“I am.”
“You’ve lost weight.”
“I’m not hungry.”
Chioma sighed but stepped aside to let her in. The house smelled like jollof rice, thyme, and rosemary. Familiar. Comforting. But Ama felt like a stranger in her own childhood home.
She hadn’t been here since the funeral.
Her brother greeted her in the kitchen, and for a while, they talked about harmless things—work, the neighbors, the landlord's ridiculous new rules. But Ama’s mind wandered.
Then, after dinner, as Chioma poured tea in the living room, Ama rolled up her sleeve to scratch her shoulder.
Her mother’s hands froze.
“What is that?” she asked, her voice too calm.
Ama looked down.
The spiral mark on her collarbone shimmered softly beneath the lamplight.
“It’s nothing. Just... a weird scar.”
“No,” Chioma whispered. Her face drained of color. “No, no, no.”
“Mum—”
Chioma stood suddenly, knocking the teacup over. Hot liquid spread across the rug. She didn’t notice.
Jide jumped up, grabbing a towel, but Ama remained seated, eyes locked on her mother.
“You were supposed to be safe,” Chioma muttered. “I kept you from it. I—”
“Kept me from what?”
Her mother sat again, slowly, like her bones were too heavy. “Your father… he didn’t die the way we told you.”
Ama’s heart pounded. “What do you mean?”
“He wasn’t sick. He was taken. By them. The ones who live between night and day. The ones who feed on names.”
Jide scoffed from the kitchen. “Mum—come on—”
“Quiet!” Chioma snapped. “You know nothing, boy.”
Ama leaned forward. “Who are they?”
Chioma looked into her eyes, and for a second, Ama saw something she never had before in her mother: fear. Real, ancient fear.
“They called your father a keeper. He kept something hidden—something sacred. Something they wanted. And when he wouldn’t give it to them…” She trailed off, her voice cracking. “They came in the dark. I found the symbol on his chest, just like yours.”
Ama pressed her hand against her collarbone.
“Why didn’t you ever tell me?”
“Because I thought I broke the line. That by hiding you, changing your name, never speaking of him—I thought I’d saved you.”
Ama stared at her. “Changed my name?”
Chioma nodded. “Your name was Amaechi. Your father named you after the star-bound seer in our tribe’s oldest story. But I shortened it. Hid it. Took the power out of it.”
Ama’s voice was barely a whisper. “But it found me anyway.”
Chioma nodded again, defeated.
Outside, a wind rose suddenly, rustling the curtains. The lights dimmed.
And in the far corner of the room, Ama swore she saw the shadows shift.
---
She returned home just after 10 p.m., her head spinning with everything her mother had said. The world she’d known felt thinner now, like one more step would send her tumbling into something deeper.
Her phone buzzed again.
KYEN: My office. Now.
She didn’t think. She just moved.
---
The office was deserted when she arrived. The elevators hummed quietly, the security guard nodded her through without a word.
Kyen’s door was open. He stood inside, arms crossed, staring out the window. He didn’t turn when she entered.
“You shouldn’t go poking the past,” he said. “It leaves bruises.”
She closed the door. “Too late for that.”
“I know you spoke to your mother.”
Ama froze. “How?”
“She used to be one of us.”
Her breath caught. “One of what?”
Kyen finally turned to face her. There was no amusement in his expression now. Just gravity. “Watchers. Keepers. Gatewalkers. The names vary, but the responsibility is the same.”
“And you?”
He stepped closer. “I used to be human. Once. Before I was marked. Before I chose the other side.”
Ama’s skin prickled. “You chose this?”
“I chose to survive. Same as you will.”
She narrowed her eyes. “What makes you so sure?”
He reached into his coat and pulled out a worn piece of parchment. On it, the same spiral symbol pulsed with faint light.
“Because you’re the last piece of a prophecy that’s been sleeping for centuries. And the others have begun to wake.”
He stepped close, too close, and this time, Ama didn’t pull away.
“What do they want from me?” she whispered.
His gaze dropped to her collarbone. “What you carry. What you are. And what you’ll become.”
He looked into her eyes. “But they can’t take you if I claim you first.”
Ama’s heart pounded. “Claim me?”
“Not in the way you think. A bond. A protection. A tether between us.”
“And what do you get?” she asked, voice barely steady.
He smiled. Not cold. Not cruel. Just... honest.
“A chance at redemption.”
The air between them crackled. Her skin buzzed. Her mind screamed to run.
But her soul? It leaned in.
Ama didn’t speak.
She just nodded.
And the night called her name again.
---
- Writer
