The night sky stretched endlessly over the dense creeks of the Niger Delta, its black expanse interrupted only by the flickering glow of torches lining the village perimeter. Deep within the thick mangroves, hidden from the eyes of those who sought him, a lone figure stood, his heart pounding against his ribs like war drums.
Tamuno had been many things, a prince, a warrior, a leader. But now, he was a fugitive.
The weight of exile sat heavy on his shoulders, each day a reminder of what he had lost. His father, the great King Owei, had been poisoned in a ruthless betrayal. His mother, Queen Otonye, had fallen to the merciless hands of Seiowei's men. And his kingdom, his home, was now in the grip of a tyrant who sought to erase every trace of his existence.
But Tamuno was not dead. Not yet.
The warrior who had taken him in, Oporo, was a legend in his own right. A man who had once led armies into battle but had chosen the life of a recluse. Oporo had seen in Tamuno the fire of a warrior, the will of a survivor, and had taken it upon himself to shape the prince into a weapon forged in pain and discipline.
"Your past is dead," Oporo had told him on the first night of his arrival. "If you wish to reclaim anything, you must become something greater than yourself. You must become the storm that Seiowei will never see coming."
The Tyrant's Hunt
Seiowei's fear of Tamuno's survival had reached a fever pitch. The thought of the last rightful heir breathing was an itch he could not scratch, a shadow he could not escape. He had sent his warriors, his spies, and even mercenaries from distant lands. Each time they returned with the same report: The prince cannot be found.
This only deepened Seiowei's rage. "He lives," he spat through gritted teeth. "And as long as he breathes, my throne is never secure."
In response, he unleashed the Dead Eyes, a brutal band of assassins feared across the Delta. These were men who did not speak, who did not fail, who did not leave survivors. Their orders were simple: Find the prince and return with his head.
Tamuno, however, had spent years in hiding, training under Oporo's relentless guidance. He had transformed from a hunted boy into a ghost within the wild. He knew the land better than those who sought him, and he had learned how to fight in ways the tyrant's men could never anticipate.
But even ghosts were not invincible.
The First Attack
The attack came just before dawn.
Tamuno had been practicing with his short blade when the first arrow sliced through the air, missing his neck by inches. His instincts screamed, and he rolled to the ground as a second arrow buried itself into a tree behind him.
The Dead Eyes had found him.
Oporo (the new guidance) emerged from the shadows like a phantom, his twin blades gleaming under the faint moonlight. "Run, Tamuno! Now!" he bellowed as he charged into the fight.
Tamuno hesitated. He had been trained to fight, not to flee. But Oporo's command was not to be questioned. With one last glance at his mentor, he turned and dashed into the thick undergrowth.
The warriors who pursued him were relentless. Their faces were covered in dark paint, their movements swift and calculated. Tamuno pushed himself harder, leaping over fallen logs, ducking under hanging vines, his breath ragged as he weaved through the labyrinth of trees.
Suddenly, a hand shot out from the darkness and yanked him aside.
He spun, his blade ready, only to meet the hardened gaze of Oporo. His mentor was bleeding from a deep gash across his chest, but his grip on Tamuno was firm. "They know the land well, but they don't know the river. We must take to the water."
The sound of approaching footsteps sent them sprinting again. Ahead, the river gurgled, its current swift and unforgiving.
"Jump!" Oporo ordered.
Tamuno hesitated only for a second before plunging into the icy water. The current seized him, dragging him downstream as arrows sliced through the air above.
A New Refuge
They drifted for miles before washing ashore on the outskirts of a hidden settlement. The village was small, its people wary, but Oporo had allies in unexpected places. They were taken in, their wounds tended to, and for the first time in weeks, Tamuno allowed himself a moment of rest.
But Seiowei's reach was long, and safety was an illusion.
The Dead Eyes were still searching, and they would not stop until their mission was complete.
The Warrior's Resolve
As Tamuno sat by the fire that night, sharpening his blade, he made a silent vow.
He would not run forever.
He would not hide while Seiowei defiled his father's name, his mother's memory, his people's dignity.
"Oporo," he murmured, his eyes filled with a newfound resolve. "It is time."
His mentor studied him for a long moment before nodding. "Then we prepare."
The exiled warrior was no longer just a fugitive.
He was a storm brewing on the horizon, a force of vengeance that would one day return to reclaim what was his.
And Seiowei would never see him coming.