The activity in the fishing village of Oja-Ibo ground to a halt with the suddenness of a snapped line. Fishermen, poised to cast their nets, paused mid-throw, their woven traps dangling forgotten. A frantic game of tag among a group of children faltered, their laughter dying as they stopped to stare, their eyes wide with unified astonishment. Vendors, who had been loudly hawking the morning’s catch, ceased their calls, their voices replaced by a ripple of stunned, questioning silence. All eyes, it seemed, were fixed on the enormous, gently spinning lily pad and its three very unusual, very damp passengers.

  A grizzled fisherman with a face as weathered as sun-bleached driftwood and a heavy net slung over his shoulder was the first to break the spell. He jabbed a calloused, questioning finger at their leafy vessel and bellowed to his companion nearby, "By the orisha! What in the name of the Yemoja is that?"

  His companion, a stout woman with powerful arms like braided rope, shielded her eyes with her hand, her head tilted. "Looks like a giant water lily, Bahari!" she exclaimed, her voice booming across the water. She squinted, her gaze lingering on Low. "And it's got people on it!"

  A group of younger villagers started to giggle, their initial shock giving way to open amusement. One boy pointed at Leonotis’ damp and slightly bedraggled appearance and called out, "Look, Mama! It’s a swamp knight on a leaf!"

  An older woman, her face a beautiful, intricate map of wrinkles, approached the edge of the dock, her expression a mixture of deep curiosity and cautious suspicion. "Where in the deep currents did you three come from," she asked, her voice raspy but kind, "riding such a peculiar… boat?"

  Leonotis, his face flushing with embarrassment at all the sudden attention, offered a sheepish, apologetic grin. "Well, good people of… uh… wherever this wonderful village is! We had a slight… navigational mishap. You see, our original transport was a tad… less buoyant." He gestured vaguely upstream, hoping the explanation sounded plausible. "And the river, it seemed to have other plans for us today."

  Low, still looking slightly grumpy and clutching the werebear fur she had fashioned into a makeshift tunic, muttered under her breath, "More like the river had a personal vendetta against us."

  Jacqueline, despite their undignified arrival, managed a polite, almost regal nod to the onlookers, her innate grace unshaken. "We apologize for the unexpected intrusion. We were hoping to reach the Capital, but… the current proved to be rather strong."

  The villagers continued to stare, their initial shock slowly morphing into a lively hubbub of curiosity and bewildered amusement. The giant lily pad, bobbing gently in their harbor like a misplaced piece of a god's garden, was undoubtedly the most unusual sight they had seen in a long time. Their unexpected arrival had certainly made a splash in the quiet, predictable rhythm of their riverside life.

  The grizzled fisherman, Bahari, narrowed his eyes, his gaze sweeping over the three sodden travelers. "The Capital, you say? You should have gotten off the river a good day's walk upstream, by the Stone Giants. Even without a giant leaf for a boat, the rapids past that bend are treacherous this time of year. What were you thinking, traveling on… that?"

  "Well," Leonotis began, wringing a considerable amount of water from the hem of his toga, "we had a… unique situation involving some rather aggressive, oversized fish that suddenly increased the river's enthusiasm for downstream travel."

  The stout woman chuckled, a booming, infectious sound that echoed across the water. "Enthusiastic river, eh? Sounds like you've had yourselves a proper adventure. Name's Mansa, by the way, and this old grump is Bahari."

  Bahari grunted in acknowledgement, though his suspicion had not entirely abated. "Adventure usually doesn't involve giant flora as your primary mode of transport."

  A new voice, dry and sharp as cracking ice, cut through the murmurs of the crowd. "The Capital, you say? And you were traveling by lily pad?"

  Standing at the edge of the dock, having appeared as if from the shadows themselves, was an elderly woman. Her back was ramrod straight despite her age, lending her an imposing presence. She was dressed in deep, rich violet robes that seemed to absorb the sunlight, and a multitude of intricate silver rings adorned her long, bony fingers. Her eyes, though ancient, held a sharp, unsettlingly intense gleam that seemed to peel back layers and see the truths beneath. Perched silently on her shoulder, its intelligent black eyes missing nothing, was a silver-plumed raven.

  "That's Widow Eno," Mansa whispered to Leonotis, her voice dropping with a hint of awe and perhaps a touch of apprehension. "Keeps to herself mostly, up on the hill. Some say she… knows things. Things others have forgotten."

  Widow Eno’s gaze bypassed Leonotis and Jacqueline, fixing instead on Low with an unnerving focus, her head tilted slightly. "You have the air of someone seeking knowledge. The library is indeed vast. But your methods of travel are… unconventional."

  Leonotis, ever the optimist, brightened. "Widow Eno! A pleasure to meet you. We seemed to have missed our turn. Any chance you know of a quick way back upstream?"

  Widow Eno’s thin lips curved into a smile that held no warmth, only a predatory sort of amusement. "Quick ways often have their own treacherous currents, young man. Backtracking on this river against those rapids would be foolish, even for one with… certain newfound abilities." Her gaze flickered meaningfully towards Low, who shifted uncomfortably, feeling as though the old woman could see the werebear golden fur still clinging to her soul.

  "So, we're stuck here?" Low grumbled, crossing her arms. "Just great."

  "Not necessarily stuck," Widow Eno said, her voice a low, melodious hum that sent a shiver down Leonotis's spine. "Merely… delayed. The village of Oja-Ibo offers simple lodgings. You look weary. Rest for the night. Perhaps, in the morning, a solution will present itself." Her gaze lingered on Low again, sharp and piercing. "Tell me, what is it you truly seek in the Capital?"

  Low hesitated for a moment, a flicker of unease and defiance crossing her face under the widow's intense stare. "Information… regarding a… a condition. An unwanted inheritance."

  Widow Eno nodded slowly, as if she already knew the answer and found it moderately interesting. "Conditions can be… persistent. Sometimes, the answers lie not in grand libraries filled with the words of men, but in the quiet whispers of the earth itself." She turned, her violet robes swirling around her ankles. "Near the graveyard on the hill there is a peaceful place to rest. The earth there is old. It… remembers many things." With that cryptic pronouncement, she glided away, melting back into the village crowd as silently as she had appeared, the silver raven on her shoulder remaining perfectly, unnaturally still.

  Leonotis looked at Low and Jacqueline, a shiver tracing its way down his spine despite the warm afternoon sun. "Well," he said, forcing a cheerful tone he didn't feel, "that was… certainly an introduction. A black mage, you think?"

  Mansa, who had been watching Widow Eno’s departure with a thoughtful, respectful expression, nodded slowly. "Some say she dabbled in things best left forgotten, long ago. Powerful, though. And… sometimes helpful, in her own strange, roundabout way. Her advice is never simple, but it's rarely wrong."

  "A graveyard, huh?" Low said, a familiar grumble returning to her voice. "Just what I wanted after a delightful river monster encounter. More dead things."

  Despite Low's protests, the idea of a quiet, undisturbed place to rest after their chaotic, harrowing journey held a certain, undeniable appeal. The villagers, their initial curiosity sated, seemed willing to offer them a night's respite, their wariness tempered by the children's obvious exhaustion.

  "Alright," Leonotis said, a weary sigh escaping his lips as he looked towards the hill Widow Eno had indicated. "A night in the graveyard it is. Hopefully, the earth will whisper some good advice in our sleep, and not just ghost stories." The path ahead remained uncertain, shrouded in the cryptic words of the eccentric widow and the lingering threat of whatever awaited them at the King's Citadel. For now, however, rest was paramount.

  The initial spectacle of their arrival on the giant lily pad slowly subsided, replaced by the persistent, workaday rhythm of Oja-Ibo village life. The sun, beginning its descent, painted the river in hues of orange and gold, and the air filled with the savory scents of evening meals being prepared. The villagers, while still casting curious glances their way, largely returned to their tasks—mending nets, scaling fish, and calling their children in from the docks.

  “Alright,” Leonotis said, taking charge with a sense of weary responsibility. “First things first: food. And Low, you need… well, not a blanket.”

  Low glanced down at the golden werebear hide she had wrapped around herself, which was starting to feel uncomfortably warm and distinctly animal. “Don’t have to tell me twice,” she grumbled. “I saw a weaver’s shop back there. I’ve got some coin from those bounty hunters. I’ll meet you back here in an hour.” She gave the fur a thoughtful tug. “And I have an idea for this.”

  "Jaqueline can go with ..." Leonotis started to say but was silenced by a harsh look from Low.

  "I will be fine on my own," Low said under her breath.

  With a nod, she strode off with purpose, leaving Leonotis and Jacqueline standing awkwardly by the docks. “Food mission?” Leonotis asked, offering Jacqueline a hopeful smile.

  She nodded, her gaze taking in the bustling, unfamiliar scene with a mixture of apprehension and wonder. "Food would be… acceptable."

  They found the village’s small market square, a chaotic but vibrant space where vendors sold everything from roasted plantains to shimmering river pearls. The aromas were dizzying: sharp ginger, sweet fried dough, and the smoky char of grilled fish. Leonotis, his stomach rumbling loudly, purchased a half-dozen steaming meat pies from a cheerful woman who gave them an extra one for free after hearing a heavily edited version of their "boating mishap." Jacqueline, looking overwhelmed by the rustic fare, settled for a piece of sweet, sun-ripened mango, which she ate with a delicate, almost clinical precision.

  As they ate, Leonotis became aware of a subtle, persistent presence. A small troop of village children, their faces smudged with dirt and their eyes wide with curiosity, had been trailing them from a safe distance, whispering and pointing. As Leonotis finished his last pie, the boldest of the group, a little girl with a missing front tooth and a fearless grin, darted forward.

  “Are you really going up to the graveyard?” she asked, her voice a conspiratorial whisper.

  Leonotis, surprised by her directness, nodded. “Widow Eno suggested it. Said it was peaceful.”

  The girl’s eyes grew even wider. “But it’s not peaceful! It’s haunted!” she declared. Another boy, slightly older, crept up behind her. “Yeah! Old Man Hemlock’s ghost wanders there! They say if you fall asleep on his grave, he steals your breath!” The other children nodded in solemn, wide-eyed agreement, their earlier amusement replaced by genuine concern for these strange newcomers.

  Meanwhile, Low entered a shop filled with bolts of colorful Ankara fabric and the clacking sound of a loom. An elderly woman with kind, knowing eyes looked up as she entered. Low placed the bundle of golden fur on the counter. “I need a simple tunic and trousers,” she said, pushing a few of the bounty hunters’ coins across the wood. “And… can you do anything with this?”

  The woman picked up the fur, her skilled fingers testing its texture and weight. Her eyebrows rose. “Golden werebear,” she murmured, her voice calm. “Haven’t seen a pelt this fine in fifty years. The curse was broken cleanly.” She looked at Low, not with fear, but with a deep, appraising respect. “You want a shawl? It will be warm. And protective. The spirit of the beast lingers, but in a good way, if the hide is treated with respect.”

  “You can do it?” Low asked, surprised by the woman’s lack of alarm.

  The weaver smiled. “Child, in Oja-Ibo, we’ve seen stranger things wash up from the river than a girl with a golden pelt. Come back before the moon is high.”

  When the trio reunited at the docks, Low was dressed in a simple but sturdy new tunic and trousers, a vast improvement over her blanket. Draped over her shoulders was a magnificent shawl of shimmering, golden fur, expertly stitched and surprisingly elegant.

  “Wow,” Leonotis breathed, impressed.

  “It’s warm,” was all Low said, though she couldn't hide the flicker of pride in her eyes.

  Leonotis quickly relayed the children’s warning about the haunted graveyard. Low just snorted. “A breath-stealing ghost? After giant spiders, werebear curses, and bounty hunters, I think I can handle Old Man Hemlock.”

  Despite Low’s bravado, a new layer of unease settled over them as they began their trek up the hill overlooking the village. The sun had finally dipped below the horizon, and the path grew steep and overgrown, the cheerful sounds of Oja-Ibo fading behind them. The air grew cooler, carrying the scent of damp earth and something else—the faint, sweet smell of funerary flowers. They soon reached a low, crumbling stone wall that marked the graveyard’s perimeter. Inside, ancient, tilting headstones stood like crooked teeth against the twilight sky.

  “Well, this is charming,” Low muttered, her hand straying to the reassuring weight of the throwing knives at her belt.

  “Wait,” Jacqueline said softly, her voice drawing their attention. She pointed not towards the graveyard itself, but to a spot just outside the wall, partially hidden by a thicket of overgrown jasmine and a gnarled, weeping willow. Nestled there was a small, derelict hut. It was made of river stone and dark wood, with a sagging thatched roof and a single, grime-covered window that stared out like a blind eye. A crooked wooden door hung slightly ajar, beckoning them into its shadowed interior. It was clearly abandoned, likely the former home of a groundskeeper or a reclusive hermit.

  “Now that looks more promising than sleeping with a ghost,” Leonotis said, a wave of relief washing over him. The thought of a solid roof, however derelict, was infinitely more appealing than a bed of cold earth. Together, their footsteps quiet on the overgrown path, they approached the abandoned hut, the silent gravestones their only witnesses in the deepening gloom.