Novels by Anita Ifeyinwa

​My aunt’s door remained shut, but I could feel her disappointment pressing on the wall like a physical force. Then I saw my uncle. He stood outside his workshop—a grizzled, quiet man whose rare approval meant everything to me. He watched me approach, his face a desolate mask of grief. As I drew level with him, his eyes, usually kind, hardened into chips of black granite. He met my gaze for a long, aching moment. Then, slowly, deliberately, he turned his back on me, walking into his workshop and pulling the heavy wooden door shut with a resounding thud.​It was a physical blow that staggered me, a pain worse than any venom. He hadn’t just turned his back on me; he had extinguished my presence. ​I couldn't endure it. I couldn't live with the guilt and the unanswered condemnation. Ignoring the armed guards and the cold command in JD’s posture, I broke ranks. I ran to the back of my aunt's house, my legs burning with a fresh, desperate adrenaline. I shoved the familiar door open and stu

The transit vehicle was a cage, armored and utterly black inside. I was slumped on a cold, unforgiving bench, fighting the constant urge to vomit. The metallic, bitter taste of the venom residue still coated my mouth like old pennies. My muscles were in revolt, not just tired, but actively spasming—a relentless tremor beneath my skin, like a thousand trapped needles. The ringing in my ears wasn't just loud; it was a high-pitched, mocking whine that blocked out everything real. My head felt like a bruised melon, thrumming with a headache that felt capable of splitting my skull.​I tried to breathe—a simple, basic function—but my lungs burned. Every cell in my body felt violated, scraped clean. The swamp hadn't just drained my strength; it had stolen my ability to feel anything but this raw, awful emptiness. I was a man held together by pure, desperate, exhausted will. ​JD Blaxskn sat across from me, motionless and immaculate. He didn't look at me, but I felt his scrutiny, cold and clin

We were moving out of the tent, heading toward the temporary storage area, when a body slammed into mine, sending a shockwave through me that nearly knocked me off my feet. I looked up and was met by the cold, unforgiving eyes of Jax Anvil. ​His stare had always been distant, but this was different. This was a message. And I understood it perfectly, without a single word being spoken. He blamed me for Titus's death. Jax let out a low, gruff huff, then looked away. A chilling feeling ran down my spine, confirming the unspoken accusation. He’s right. I am responsible for his death. My guilt twisted the moment, telling me Jax's pain was proof of my treachery.​I found myself near the storage sacks, unable to move. I was lost in thoughts. I could not lift a finger to pack anything. All I did was sit still and observed an ant try to drag a grain of millet over to its layer. The ant struggled, slipped, righted itself, and hauled the grain again, its tiny effort immense. I saw myself in its

​​I didn't run. I couldn't afford the panic. I walked, rigid and cold, toward the faint, sickly green glow of the trial marker. Every step was a forced act of will, driven by the ruthless core of the Silurix discipline: cunning ensures life. My boots squelched on the fungal mat, but the sound was distant, muffled by the ringing in my ears—a fading echo of Titus’s final agony.​The marker was an ancient, rough-hewn stump, its wood covered in bioluminescent moss and the crudely carved sigil of the Liberated Liions. I reached out a trembling hand and pressed my palm against the cool, damp surface. The sigil flashed, a brief, silent affirmation that the trial was complete. I had survived. I had won.​The moment the sigil flared, the oppressive silence of the swamp was ripped away. The heavy, sweet, intoxicating mist began to thin, pulled back by powerful, unseen vents hidden in the canopy. The sounds of the outside world—the distant, metallic hum of Victoria's machinery—rushed back in, ra

The Crucible was engineered to break you down, not just with impossible physical feats, but with relentless, gnawing hunger. Every meal was the same tasteless, lukewarm protein paste. They wanted us hollowed out, easier to fill with their dogma.​But Titus was the only one who fought the hunger with laughter.​“Look at that slop, Nox,” he’d grumble, kicking his boots in the dirt. “If I fed this to a stray dog back home, my mother would whip me.”​Titus came from the wealthy Anvil clan; I came from the Silurix alleys, raised by the back of the palms of my aunt and uncle. Yet, the hunger made us equals. And the Instructors’ Mess Hall, forever wafting the rich, forbidden scent of spiced meat and dark sugar, became our common enemy.​"We need a distraction," he whispered that night in the barracks, the hunger making his voice tight. "They’re too paranoid to let anyone near that kitchen. They guard against strength, but they don't anticipate cunning."​The mess hall ran on a main methane l

​The sound arrived like a physical blow.​It wasn't a roar of battle or a challenge; it was a pure, high-pitched shriek of sheer agony and terror, instantly recognizable, instantly wrong. It cut through the insulating silence of the swamp like a razor across velvet.​Titus!​The name tore through the haze of the hallucinogenic venom. All the spectral images—the disappointed faces of my aunt and uncle, the silent, judging figure of Titus—vanished. The mist, for one terrifying second, cleared enough for brutal reality to flood in. ​Titus was close. Too close. And he wasn't fighting the hallucinations; he was being torn apart. I had seen the sign. I had seen his image but I thought it was the swamp playing tricks on me. I ignored it.​Now that I had realized how reckless I had been, my feet moved before my mind could process it. A rush of pure, raw instinct—Friend. Danger! Save him! I plunged forward, heedless of the terrain, ripping through hanging moss that stung my skin. I could hear