LEONARD
The sitting room smells like popcorn, rubber grips, and victory.
I'm lounging on the left side of our long gray couch, sockless, legs stretched out, controller in my lap. John Brown is in the middle, hunched forward, laser-focused like he's piloting a real fighter jet. Calvin Klein—black, bald, built like a cement truck—is sitting cross-legged on the rug with his elbows on the coffee table, gripping his wireless pad like it owes him money.
The TV is massive. Eight feet of LED chaos lighting up the walls with every blood splatter and fireball Mortal Kombat throws our way. It's the 2024 MK1 Kombat Pack, and the graphics are so sharp, you can almost feel the sweat fly off the fighters.
The couch cushions are sunken. Popcorn bowl—empty. Fan spinning lazily overhead. Our laughter echoes off the tower walls like we've got nothing to do but win and clown each other.
The controller in Calvin's hands buzzes.
He flinches like it just barked at him.
"Bro, you're finished," John grins, tightening his grip. "Omni-Man doesn't play."
Calvin scoffs. "I'm not scared of no moustache daddy," he grunts, thumbs hammering buttons. "Sektor's got tech. Smoke bombs. Missiles. Toast this man."
I lean back and sip soda from a can I forgot was already flat. "You sure you wanna talk smack before the match starts?"
Calvin side-eyes me. "Lemme focus, Flash Jr."
John cracks his neck. "Let's go then. Three rounds. No crying."
I smirk. "Oh, somebody's about to cry."
They select their fighters—Omni-Man vs. Sektor.
Round One loads.
Tension builds like we're watching a boxing match. The camera pans around the two fighters on screen. Sektor, red and metallic, steam hissing from his shoulders. Omni-Man floats into the frame with that blank expression that says he's already decided to kill you.
"FIGHT!"
John moves first—fast, surgical. Omni-Man closes the distance with a brutal dash-punch combo.
Calvin's eyes widen. "Yo, wait—"
Too late.
Omni-Man grabs Sektor mid-air, slams him into the ground, and uppercuts him into the next dimension.
BOOM.
Sektor ragdolls into a wall of fire.
K.O.
"YOOOOO!" I yell, choking on my soda.
Calvin throws both hands up. "Bruh! I WASBLOCKING!"
John leans back like a king on a throne. "You weren't blocking the hands of justice."
I wheeze. "Man said 'hands of justice' like this is Judge Judy."
Calvin resets. "Aight. Aight. Round two. Run it back."
Round Two.
This time Calvin plays smart. Missiles. Teleports. Smoke bombs.
Sektor catches Omni-Man in a trap, then hits him with a spinning laser uppercut.
Victory.
Calvin jumps up, does a victory dance that looks like a robot having a seizure. "YEAH!! Respect me! Respect me, bro!"
John rolls his eyes. "Final round. Let's see who's laughing."
Round Three.
John tightens up.
No taunts. No trash talk.
Omni-Man enters violence mode. Sektor is tossed, punched, dragged across concrete and tossed again.
Omni-Man grabs him by the neck, lifts him, and snaps his robotic spine.
FATALITY.
Calvin stares. "...man."
I shake my head. "You didn't lose, bro. You got humbled."
John tosses the controller in the air and catches it like a mic drop. "Next!"
I grab my pad and stretch my fingers. "You ready for this?"
John doesn't even blink. "Let me guess… Homelander?"
I grin. "Yep. Blondie vs. 'stache king. Let's see who's the real menace."
New match loads.
Omni-Man floats in. Homelander follows, eyes glowing faint red.
"Round One," the game announces.
FIGHT.
John starts strong again. Omni-Man lays in a flurry of punches. Homelander barely has time to blink before getting smacked across the arena.
K.O.
"OOOF," I grunt. "Okay. That happened."
Calvin laughs. "How you let the beard beat you like that?"
"Watch this," I say, a little too smug.
Round Two.
I switch on speed.
My fingers blur across the controller. I hear the clicks before I realize I'm mashing seventeen commands in two seconds.
Homelander goes nuts—beams, flight, savage takedowns.
K.O.
John drops his pad and stares at me. "Leonard. What was that?"
I try to look innocent. "What?"
"You used your powers, man! Speedster cheat code!"
I laugh. "Bro, I didn't even break a sweat!"
Calvin shakes his head. "That pad was speaking in tongues."
John resets. "Final round. If you cheat, I cheat."
"Bring it."
Round Three.
Suddenly, John's hands blur.
Homelander gets obliterated before I even finish a combo.
FATALITY.
"Wait—nah, you just did what I did!"
John shrugs, smiling. "What? I'm just built different."
"That's cheating!"
"No, that's balance," he smirks. "Speed for speed."
Calvin grabs my pad. "Alright, enough. Let the real champ play."
I get up, still laughing—then the elevator doors slide open.
Captain Jack steps out first, wearing those tech glasses that gleam faint blue under the ceiling lights. Menace and Black Cardinal follow behind, silent. Their postures tense.
Then come Samuel Vincent and Desmond Chukwu.
Both limping. Both scarred.
And both still wearing half-destroyed nanotech armor.
Samuel's chest plate is cracked, edges blackened. His right gauntlet sparks weakly. Dried blood trails from a cut near his brow. Desmond's armor is worse—his shoulder is exposed, the mesh underneath torn open, his leg brace malfunctioning with a soft hiss.
The laughter dies instantly.
John rises to his feet. Calvin drops the controller.
"What the hell happened?" I say, barely above a whisper.
Captain Jack doesn't speak.
He removes the glasses and looks at us. I can still see the guilt in his eyes.
Samuel lowers his head and mutters, "We... barely made it out."
Desmond adds, voice low and hollow, "Nigeria wasn't what we expected."
All the fun, the game, the joy—gone. Like a candle snuffed out in the dark.
Whatever battle they just fought, it wasn't in a video game.
And it left marks no reset button could fix.
The Summit Room – Two hours later.
The Summit Room sits on the 90th floor of Ventures Tower, a sleek, circular command center suspended above the city skyline. Glass panels surround the room like an eagle's nest, offering a panoramic view of distant thunderclouds rolling across the horizon. The interior is crisp—dark steel walls trimmed with subtle blue lighting. A large, round table dominates the center, embedded with a glowing ring interface. Holograms flicker quietly around the edges: global threat maps, open communication feeds, energy signatures, surveillance data.
Everyone's here—Samuel, Captain Jack, Menace, John, Black Cardinal, Desmond, Calvin, and me. We sit in silence, the weight of Samuel and Desmond's debrief on the Lagos attack pressing heavily on our minds. No one moves. Not even the humming interface breaks the tension.
Finally, John leans forward, elbows on the table. His voice is tired, raw.
"Honestly… I'm sick of this. Every year, it's something new. First, I had to survive my own Red Werewolf phase. Then came Malacoda. After that? Cyberman and his damn robot armies. And now… aliens? Over a crystal none of us even fully understand?"
Desmond, eyes dim, mutters under his breath.
"The Time Crystal. They're coming for it."
John shakes his head, scoffing.
"Just once, I wanna live a year without war. No monsters. No alien gods. No waking up wondering who's gonna bleed next."
Black Cardinal—Jessica—leans back, a soft, almost wistful smile on her lips.
"Those days exist. But only because people like us fight to make them real."
John frowns. "What are you saying?"
"Villains shape us, John. Without them… there'd be no need for heroes."
John looks confused. Calvin speaks up, arms folded.
"So we're just supposed to sit tight and wait for the next disaster?"
Desmond rubs his temple. "They're not waiting. They're already finding us."
Samuel straightens. "Then we need to bring back the rest of the team. Morinjo. Belteshazzar. Trivium."
Jessica exhales sharply. "After the Accord fallout, Morinjo took a break. Belteshazzar had… issues to resolve on his homeworld."
"Wait." Samuel's brow furrows. "Morinjo quit?"
Captain Jack corrects him, voice even. "He didn't quit. He stepped back."
Desmond chimes in. "And what about the lightning guy?"
"Trivium left after Sam's wedding. We haven't heard from him since," Jessica replies.
I lean forward, fingers tapping the table. "Someone sent those aliens for the Time Crystal. Any ideas who?"
Menace—Joseph—doesn't blink. His voice is grave.
"Emperor Erebus. Path Finder's father."
Jessica narrows her eyes at him. "How do you know that?"
Menace turns, scanning our faces. "Do you remember Israel?"
Samuel frowns. "Who?"
I sit up straighter. "The boy. From Norway. He had a vision the moment Jessica touched him after the school attack."
Menace nods. "That's him. We brought him here after the incident. The kid… he knows things. Saw Erebus in visions. Saw the weapons he's hunting. Said Earth is on that list."
Captain Jack's voice cuts in. "What weapons?"
Menace hesitates. "Ten of them. Maybe more. I only know one of them is here. The Time Crystal."
Desmond asks what we're all thinking. "Who exactly is Erebus?"
I speak slowly. "He's Path Finder's father… and according to Morinjo, he's a planet-killer. Conquered entire star systems."
"So this Time Crystal… it's one of Erebus' targets?" Samuel asks.
Menace nods. "Yes."
Desmond sits forward. "Then we guard it. Period."
Captain Jack tilts his head. "And if we fail?"
Menace looks down. "Let's not even pray for that."
Jessica and I glance at him. "Why?" we both ask.
His voice is cold. Clear. Final.
"Because if Erebus wins—if he gets all the weapons—this world will change forever. No more superpowers. No aliens. No agents. No heroes. Just silence."
I speak before I can stop myself.
"Then we destroy it. The Time Crystal."
They all look at me.
Samuel's eyes narrow. "That's my father's invention."
"And that's the point. If we destroy it, Erebus can't take it. That's the only guarantee we have."
Samuel doesn't budge. "That price is too high."
"But you're the only one who can pay it."
The silence is thick now. Heavy.
Calvin speaks up. "Even if we destroy the Time Crystal… what about the others? We can't defend what we can't find."
John adds, frustrated, "We don't even know where to start."
The room falls into stillness. Everyone's searching their minds. No answers. No leads.
Then something sparks in me—sharp, electric. A name. A place. A surge of energy like a signal cutting through static. I lean forward.
"I think… I know one place."
The low hum of the Quinjet purrs through the cabin like a heartbeat, steady and strong beneath us. The sky outside burns in hues of fading gold and deep violet, casting long shadows over the vast landscape ahead. But even from up here, Oyo doesn't just look majestic—it feels like something ancient breathing just beneath the surface.
Black Cardinal and Menace sit at the front of the cockpit. She's piloting, fingers gliding confidently over the controls, her eyes sharp and unblinking. He's beside her, arms crossed, bow slung across his back, monitoring the altitude with that usual quiet intensity. They don't say much—but they don't have to. They fly like soldiers born in the sky.
Behind them, I sit with the rest of the team. Captain Jack—Eric—leans against the sidewall, shield resting at his feet, his sword sheathed by his thigh. He's got his hands clasped, head slightly bowed, like he's praying or planning. Maybe both.
John, the youngest of us, is chewing his bottom lip again, hoodie up, eyes darting between the window and the floor. He's a genius, but moments like this always make him quiet.
Calvin's scrolling through something on his wrist device, he takes off his helmet. "Energy fields look clean," he mumbles. "But this valley's dense with frequency echoes… like it's humming."
Desmond leans back with a grunt, arms crossed, looking exhausted but focused. He hasn't said a word since we took off.
And then there's Samuel.
Slouched comfortably like he owns the jet—because, knowing him, he probably helped design half of it—he's got a small smile on his face and his phone pressed to his ear.
"Chioma… no, we're fine. I swear," he says gently, keeping his voice low. "We're flying over the southern ridge now, should be landing in a few. Mission brief's tight, but nothing dangerous. Desmond's right here—he's fine."
Across from him, Desmond gives a silent wave, like that's enough to calm a woman's nerves.
Samuel nods as he listens, then his brow furrows.
"No, I get it. You're worried. Look, Susan's there, right?"
A pause.
Then he chuckles. "Hey, Susan. I didn't forget. After that little restaurant fight, we got pulled into a full team meeting. No signal inside that hangar. Tell Desmond yourself—he's just acting tough."
Desmond rolls his eyes but doesn't argue.
"Where are you two now?" Samuel asks, his voice softening again.
He listens, nodding slowly. "Alright. Grandma's place with Jennifer and my mom? Good. Keep everyone close. Stay inside if anything feels weird."
Another pause. Then:
"Love you."
He taps the phone off, staring out the window for a second longer before slipping it back in his pocket.
"Everything okay?" I ask.
He shrugs, then smiles faintly. "Everything's never really okay. But she's strong. They both are."
The Quinjet dips slightly as we begin our descent. I rise from my seat, gripping the side rail as the landscape opens wide beneath us.
The green hit me first. Not just trees—a sea of them. Thick, alive, endless. They stretched out in every direction like nature had built a fortress around the city's heart. The jet cut through the air above, smooth and silent, and below us the treetops barely moved. Still, I could feel the life beneath them—students walking, quiet courtyards tucked between rooftops, footpaths like arteries leading through the University of Ibadan.
The campus looked like it grew right out of the earth. The buildings—boxy, faded cream and dusty brown—sat in neat rows, old but firm, like they were holding stories too heavy for time to erase. Even from up here, I could feel the energy coming off that place. Ideas being born. Dreams being chased. Knowledge being passed hand to hand.
I tilted my head, watching as the greenery gave way to cityscape. Ibadan stretched far. Way further than I remembered. Rooftops rolled over the hills like waves—zinc, concrete, rust and red—layered in history. TV antennas and satellite dishes stuck out like pins on a lived-in map, each one pointing to a home, a memory, a life. The city wasn't pretty in a polished way. It didn't care to be. It was raw. Loud. Real.
Jessica steadies the Quinjet as it hovers. Joseph begins powering down the systems. The cabin glows dim, and that sacred hush falls over all of us. The hush before something bigger than yourself.
Eric stands, straps his shield onto his back, then draws his glowing sword and slides it into a sheath beside him. Calvin steps back, removes his armor piece by piece, and pulls off his mask, revealing a steady, focused gaze. Desmond cracks his neck and stretches, quiet tension settling in his frame. John tightens his hoodie, eyes sharp and fixed ahead. Samuel rises last, calm and deliberate, a faint, peaceful smile on his face.
The ramp of the Quinjet hisses as it lowers to the red earth. The moment it touches down, the air changes.
It hits me hard—spice and smoke, the faint scent of wood burning in open fires, dust clinging to the wind, and something else I can't quite name. History, maybe. Or something deeper.
I take the first step down, boots crunching against the dry soil. The land hums beneath me. It doesn't feel like stepping into a place. It feels like stepping into a memory I didn't know I had.
Ahead of us, two figures stand tall. One, a young woman in her early twenties—sharp eyes, proud shoulders. The other, an older man, strong in presence but calm like a storm waiting.
Behind them, warriors line up in silence. And these are not movie extras. These men look like they've fought real battles—like they've bled for their land.
Their skin is deep brown to jet black, glowing in the sun like polished wood. Shea butter and sweat coat their chests, giving them a holy glint beneath the golden sky.
They wear short wrappers tied at the waist—undyed cotton, animal skin, indigo cloth. Their chests are bare or clothed in sleeveless tunics stitched from leather and woven cloth. Crisscrossed straps hold charms and pouches across their torsos—likely spiritual, protective.
Some wear red or black headbands, others leather caps or tied cloths that sit tightly on their heads. A few high-ranking ones stand out—feathers tucked behind their ears, beads dancing on their necks with each slow, steady breath.
Their legs are wrapped in bands of cloth or leather, their calves reinforced like pillars.
Each man is armed—
Iron swords with carved wooden handles.
Long spears wrapped in twine and painted with earth-colored markings.
Clubs shaped from iron and wood, etched with animal symbols.
Daggers tucked into belts.
Bows slung across their backs.
Arrows tipped with who knows what.
And charms—always the charms—tied on wrists, hanging from necks, or clenched in fingers like prayers.
Their faces are solemn. Focused. Alert.
One warrior—his chest wide and arms sculpted—has white chalk painted across his face in jagged lines. Another, standing to the left, bears a scar that slices across his cheek like a signature.
Then there's the old man. He wears a rust-colored agbádá, simple but dignified, woven in stripes of ash and brown. The fabric flutters gently in the breeze, but he doesn't. He stands solid. His cap, a folded fìlà abetí ajá, sits with confident tilt—tipped forward like he's seen everything twice and lived through it all.
And beside him, the young woman. Her robe is shorter, made for movement. A warrior's agbádá—embroidered but worn tough, like armor stitched with memory. She wears a tight leather belt holding charms, and an armband that glints in the sun. Her fìlà stands upright, bold and red like defiance.
She locks eyes with me.
I take a breath and speak.
"My name is Leonard," I say, stepping forward with measured calm. "But most people know me as Zetacode, the marvelous hero of speed and lightning."
The others step up behind me.
"This is Jessica Quick—Black Cardinal. She's our shadow, our scout, our steel in silence."
Jessica nods respectfully.
"John Brown. Heart of fire and voice of werewolves."
John is grinning wide, clearly overwhelmed with pride and wonder. "I'm finally on African land. This is history, man!" he whispers behind me.
"Joseph Lucky—codename: Menace. Deadliest archer alive."
Menace gives a sharp nod, bow slung over his shoulder.
"Samuel Vincent. Our translator, tech genius, and diplomat."
Samuel gives a warm smile.
"Eric Christopher. You know him as Captain Jack. Strength and honor personified."
Eric salutes.
"Calvin. Our eye in the sky."
Calvin tips his head.
"And Desmond Chukwu, born in Nigeria—one of your own. He's family."
Desmond steps forward. His eyes are glassy, moved beyond words.
"We are the Ultimate Ventures," I say. "We've come to warn your king and queen. There is a war coming. A dark force that will stop at nothing to seize your most powerful resource—the Quivers. We're here to help protect them."
I pause. No reaction.
The warriors remain expressionless. Still. Like statues.
A long beat passes.
Then the young woman raises her brow. "I'm sorry… what?"
I blink.
Another warrior murmurs something in their language. Laughter ripples quietly.
Samuel sighs and steps forward. "Let me try."
He switches fluidly into their language, his voice smooth and respectful, translating every word I said. Their postures shift. Nods. Muted affirmations.
The old man finally steps forward. His voice is deep, weathered like a drum long played.
"I am Bashorun Oluwasegun," he says. "Advisor to the throne. Voice of wisdom."
He gestures toward the young woman beside him.
"She is Tiwa. Leader of the Oyo Empire warriors. Daughter of the storm."
Tiwa gives a short bow—not to show humility, but as a mark of respect.
"We will take you," Bashorun continues, "to meet our King and Queen. They are expecting you."
A wind sweeps through the clearing, lifting the edges of his agbádá.
Tiwa steps forward. "But speak carefully when you enter the palace. You're not on American land anymore. Here…" she smiles faintly, eyes fierce, "words carry power."
John leans closer to me, whispering, "Now this—this is what I signed up for."
I don't say anything. I'm still watching Tiwa.
Not because of how she looks—though she carries power like it's stitched into her bones.
But because, for the first time in a long time, I feel like we're standing in a place that doesn't just need heroes.
It already has them.
We follow the old man and the woman who called herself Tiwa.
The path winds through ancient archways and sacred halls, until we finally arrive.
The Palace.
The moment we enter, I feel it—respect hangs in the air like perfume. The palace is warm, lit by golden chandeliers that glow against polished wooden walls. Everything shines, not from luxury, but from legacy.
Straight ahead, the red carpet leads to the throne—bold, elevated, sacred. The Alaafin sits there, dressed in royal blue robes heavy with meaning. His crown glints under the lights, but it's his stillness that commands the room. Beside him, the Ayaba, Naomi—graceful, dignified—wears rich fabrics and coral beads that shimmer like they were born of the earth.
Around us, elders and chiefs sit on carved chairs, their clothes just as regal. The air is still, but alive—filled with low conversations in Yoruba, deep respect in every voice. Spears and symbols of power line the walls—not for show, but to remind you whose house this is.
This isn't just a palace.
It's a heartbeat. A living memory.
And sitting here, I don't feel like a guest—I feel like I've stepped into history.
"Eric?" Ayaba Naomi's voice cuts through the silence. Her tone carries something like shock.
The Alaafin turns slightly toward her. "Do you know him?"
"Yes. He's working with the current American president," she says. "He's one of those who accepted the U.N. Accords."
The Alaafin's brow creases. "Why didn't you tell me?"
"I did," Naomi answers, eyes still fixed on Eric. "I also mentioned Captain Jack."
She shifts her gaze. Her eyes narrow as they land on him.
"The one in blue, red, and black with the shield on his back... Eric Christopher." Her voice sharpens. "What are you doing here?"
Eric steps forward. His voice is low, calm, but heavy with urgency. "We're here to inform you that a war is coming. A war you never expected."
Ayaba Naomi crosses her arms. "Let me guess. The President and you have signed up for another Accords?"
"We're not here for that," Captain Jack replies quickly. "The planet-killer has sent his fighters to forcefully take the resources in this empire. The only way we can stop them is by working—"
"And who is 'we'?" Naomi's voice cuts like a blade.
The entire palace stills.
"Who?" she repeats, stepping forward. Her eyes, once warm, are ice now. "Last I checked, you submitted to the authority of the Accords. And not only that—you and Taylor Smith broke your team apart, turned allies into strangers."
She pauses—just long enough for her words to hurt.
"I thought you were brave. Strong. Independent. One of the best soldiers." She tilts her head slightly. "But that's not what I saw."
I slowly raise my left hand—like I'm back in a high school class. "May I speak, Your Majesty?"
"No, you may not!!" she snaps, her voice cracking like thunder.
"Naomi—" Menace steps forward beside Jack.
"It's Queen Naomi!" the Alaafin roars, rising just slightly. His voice commands the entire palace.
"This is not America. You will respect her!"
Menace freezes. He glances at me, then turns back to the Alaafin and gives a firm nod.
"Yes... understood."
A cold silence stretches out.
"Now leave," Queen Naomi says flatly.
"What?!" Jessica blurts, shocked.
"You heard me," Naomi says. "I have no business with you anymore."
We all exchange looks. No one speaks. I feel the tension crawling up my spine. This isn't just rejection. This is a wall being built between us.
"Warriors!" the Alaafin commands.
Suddenly—movement.
Spearpoints flash as warriors flood in from the sides, encircling us in a heartbeat. Their bodies tense, weapons raised, feet planted.
Ready to strike.
Samuel's fingers twitch slightly toward his side. Jessica's eyes narrow.
"Okay," I say, stepping between my friends and the line of warriors. My voice is calm but loud enough for the throne to hear. "We'll leave. But just know this—it's impossible for anyone, even you, to defeat the planet-killer alone. That's why we're here. To help. Not for power. Not to control. To protect."
I glance at Jack. Give him a silent nod.
We have to go. Now.
Slowly—regretfully—we begin backing away. The warriors don't lower their weapons. Their eyes stay locked on us, every muscle ready to spring.
One by one, my team turns and exits the palace.
The last to leave are Samuel, Jessica... and me.
But before I step through the grand doorway, I turn back for a final glance.
Queen Naomi is already seated again. The Alaafin's gaze is steady.
And the warriors?
Still watching.
Still waiting.
We walk slowly toward the Quinjet. The wind is dry, quiet—too quiet.
Jessica is ahead of me, but I stop.
I just stop.
I look back at the palace—the home of the Alaafin and Ayaba. My team, they've already moved on. In their minds, we've done our part. But I can't.
Jessica turns when she notices I'm no longer with them. "Leo?" she asks, eyes narrowing. "What is it?"
I take a breath. "It'll be wrong—unjust—if we walk away now. These people… they're not ready for what's coming. And most of them don't even believe it's coming."
Jessica folds her arms. "She doesn't want our help."
"That's because of the Accords. She thinks we're still divided. We just need to show her… we're not."
"And how do we do that?" Samuel joins the conversation. "She kicked us out."
I glance at the palace again. The crimson flags flutter in the wind. Somewhere in there, Queen Naomi still holds on to pain. But I'm done walking away from pain.
"I'll go back," I say.
"Alone?" Jessica steps closer.
I nod. "I have to."
A familiar voice comes behind me. "Wait up."
I don't turn immediately. But I hear their footsteps.
"I said wait up," Jessica repeats.
I turn to find her and Samuel walking toward me.
"Everything okay?" I ask.
"Yeah," she says. "But we're going with you."
I shake my head. "This is something I need to—"
"Do what?" Samuel cuts in. "Fix a mess you helped create?"
I blink at him.
He continues. "The Accords tore us apart. You're among those who signed. She didn't. She fought against it. Every time she sees you, she sees betrayal."
Jessica steps beside him. "That pain… it wasn't just hers. It hurt all of us. But we stayed. And we're here now—to help you. In case she won't listen."
I take in their words. Then, slowly… I nod. "Okay. Let's do this."
We walk back together—three Ventures heading into a storm we helped create.
As we approach the palace, the moment our boots touch the stone courtyard, the palace warriors roar forward like unleashed thunder. Spears lift. Swords gleam in the sun.
"Stand down!" I raise my hands.
The warriors form a tight circle around us.
Queen Naomi's voice pierces through the tension. "Did I not ask you to leave?"
Her voice is sharp. Controlled. But there's something under it—grief.
"Yes, you did," I reply calmly. "But that was before I apologized."
"I didn't ask for your apology." She rises slowly from the throne. Regal. Fierce. Devastating.
"And I don't want to see any of you again. Especially Eric Christopher."
Jessica steps forward. "How long will you carry this, Queen Naomi?"
"Excuse me?"
Jessica's voice is steady. "We were all wrong. You lost trust. We lost each other. But we didn't stop being Ventures."
She steps closer. "We fought. We hurt each other. I bled. You bled. But if we don't let go of what happened, then we're not saving anyone—we're just holding on to ghosts."
The Ayaba blinks.
The Alaafin, who has remained quiet till now, rises and joins her. "She's right, my queen. The past has passed. But the danger ahead is real."
I meet Queen Naomi's eyes—and I see it. Not rage. Not pride.
Tears.
Silent.
She turns and walks out the side door.
The Alaafin follows.
"Is she crying?" Samuel asks with a raised brow.
"She should," Jessica says gently. "She needs to."
I smirk. "Didn't know you were a therapist now."
Jessica chuckles. "Thanks. My mom would be proud."
Minutes pass.
Then the side door creaks open.
Naomi and the Alaafin return.
They walk in together, calm but resolved.
Naomi stands in front of us, lifts her chin, and smiles—just a little.
"Well?" Samuel says. "Have we been forgiven?"
Naomi glances at her husband, then looks at us.
Her voice is clear. Strong. Almost teasing.
"So… where's the fight?"
I smile.
"It's on the way."