The bowl was empty now. Kazeem stared at it like it might offer answers. The foutou had gone down too easily, the sauce graine still warm in his chest. But the moment of comfort passed quickly, replaced by a crawling sense of unease. His mother had stepped away to wash the cooking spoon, but her silence weighed heavy in the air.

  He should’ve asked more questions.He should’ve said something. But he couldn’t .

  Instead, he sat there, licking the last of the sauce from his fingers, pretending that this was just a normal morning in their small house .

  As if he hadn’t lived the same cursed day three times before. As if the world hadn’t cracked beneath his feet.

  Yasséna returned, drying her hands on her wrapper.

  “You sure you’re alright?” she asked again, not sharply, but with the softness that always made him feel younger than he was.

  Kazeem hesitated a bit before shooking his head. “I’m okay.”

  But she didn’t move.

  Her gaze lingered on him, dark amber eyes flicking up and down as if she were searching for something not quite on the surface. Then, quietly, she asked:

  “Is it because of what you have near your bed?”

  His stomach turned. “What?”

  She tilted her head slightly, not accusing, just observant. “There’s something there, Kazeem. You thought I wouldn’t notice?”

  He blinked. His mind reeled back through the haze of sleep, of looping storms, of visions and screams. Something had felt off this morning, like a faint heartbeat under the floorboards.

  Stolen from its rightful place, this narrative is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.

  And then it clicked.

  The mask!

  He shot to his feet and ran to the room.

  It was there, sitting by the wall near his sleeping mat. Blackened clay, Narrow eyes, Lips curved into nothing. The Dust-Dancer’s mask was still here.

  But it hadn’t been there the first time. Or… had it? He couldn’t remember anymore. The loops blurred. In one version, he’d taken it. In another, maybe not. In a third, maybe it had simply followed him.

  But now, it was here. Tangibly here. And it wasn’t just an object anymore … it pulsed. Not with light, but with memory. Like a tether to something ancient.

  He touched it.

  A flicker passed through his chest. Not a voice. Not a vision. Just… pressure. Familiar and distant at the same time.

  “What are you doing?” his mother’s voice came from behind him. Calm, but firm. “Don’t play with it.”

  Kazeem turned. “It’s… mine?”

  She didn’t answer right away. Instead, she stepped into the room, her eyes never leaving the mask.

  “Tsk! You already formed a link,” she said finally. “I felt it. That thing is bound to you now.”

  He frowned. “How do you know?”

  She crossed her arms, as if folding away the answer. “Because I’ve seen it before. Not that mask. But… others. They’re relics, Kazeem. Artifacts left behind from times no one remembers. Some bring fortune. Some bring madness. But none of them come without cost.”

  Kazeem’s lips parted, his voice thin. “So it’s cursed?”

  Yasséna shook her head. “Curses and blessings — they’re the same coin. It depends who flips it, and how long you hold it.”

  He sat down slowly, staring at the mask again.

  “So what do I do?”

  “Nothing.” Her tone tightened. “Do not try to speak to it. Do not feed it. Do not test it. If it’s quiet, let it stay that way. Some artifacts are like sleeping snakes: they don’t bite unless you poke.”

  He swallowed.

  “But how do you know all this? How do you—”

  “I’ll tell you tomorrow,” she said quickly, almost too quickly. “When your father returns.”

  Kazeem blinked. “Papa’s coming back?”

  She nodded. “He left to hunt the spirits behind the trench killings. He’s the chief of the guard after all , If anyone can face what’s in those salt pits, it’s him.”

  That should’ve comforted him.

  It didn’t.

  Because the moment she said the word tomorrow, the weight returned.

  The fear.

  The uncertainty.

  He turned toward the window, where the sky had fully cleared. The sun cast new light on old walls, but Kazeem couldn’t relax. Not yet. His body had survived. His hunger had eased. But his soul still trembled.

  Would the loop begin again?

  Would the mask awaken?

  Would the storm return?

  He bit his lip, hard.

  His fingers curled near the wall where the old mark still sat — a scratch from the 9th.

  Today was the 10th.

  He’d made it.

  But as the light shifted, as the quiet settled, as the mask stared from the floor with its hollow eyes, one thought pierced through him like a whisper from nowhere.

  Would there be a tomorrow?

  End of arc 1- The Ninth Who Devours

  This chapter marks the end of arc 1 !