The moon hung low over Ama-Ogbo, casting its silver glow upon the rippling waters of the mangroves. The once-thriving kingdom was now a land of silence, a place where whispers of rebellion barely stirred the thick air. The streets, once vibrant with traders and warriors, were now littered with bodies, a grim testament to the wrath of Seiwowei, the tyrant who sat on the throne, drunk with power and consumed by paranoia.
Seiwowei's anger knew no bounds. The failed attempts to capture the fugitive prince had set his blood to boil. He had sworn an oath that as long as he reigned, no traitor would draw breath. He had ordered his warriors to scour the land, torching villages suspected of harboring sympathizers, dragging men from their homes, and executing those who dared whisper the prince's name. Fear gripped the people, but defiance still lurked in the shadows.
Tonight, however, Seiwowei's wrath would be felt like never before.
The grand hall of the palace stood eerily quiet, its walls drenched in flickering torchlight. The throne of Ama-Ogbo, carved from the sacred iroko tree, gleamed under the dim glow. Seiwowei sat upon it, his fingers tapping against the lion-shaped armrest, his eyes dark pools of fury. Before him knelt the warlords of the kingdom, their heads bowed in dread.
"Tell me, Osain," Seiwowei's voice was a blade cutting through the silence, "why does the prince still draw breath?"
Osain, his most trusted war chief, lifted his head slowly. The thick scars across his face made him look more beast than man. "We have searched the villages, my lord. We have burned the lands. We have killed those who stood against you. But the boy is a ghost."
Seiwowei's knuckles whitened against the armrest. "A ghost?" he hissed. "A child is making fools of my warriors?"
Osain swallowed hard but did not drop his gaze. "He is protected, my king. Someone powerful is shielding him. We have found signs—hidden food supplies, encrypted messages. The people know more than they are telling."
A deadly silence followed. Seiwowei's gaze drifted toward the door, where a row of prisoners knelt, elders from various provinces, men who had once advised the former King (The Amananaowei), the late king. These men were symbols of the old order, men who, though outwardly loyal, still longed for the days before Seiwowei's bloody ascent.
Seiwowei rose from his throne. "Then let us remind the people what disloyalty costs."
With a flick of his wrist, he signaled the executioners.
The square of Ama-Ogbo was filled with the cries of the condemned. Torches burned bright, casting ominous shadows on the faces of the gathered crowd. The elders, frail but proud, stood bound before the people. Their faces bore the lines of wisdom, their eyes pools of unshaken resolve.
A hush fell over the crowd as Seiwowei emerged, his golden robes billowing like the wings of a storm. He looked over his people, eyes scanning for fear, for submission. He needed them to understand, he was no mere king; he was the wrath of the gods made flesh.
"People of Ama-Ogbo!" His voice carried through the square. "Your silence offends me! I have given you peace, and yet you plot against me. You hide a fugitive, a traitor. For this, you shall learn the price of betrayal."
At his command, the first elder was dragged forward, Ogboma, once the kingdom's most revered judge. His white beard trembled, but his gaze was unwavering.
"You were Amananaowei's counsel," Seiwowei sneered. "Now, you kneel before me. Where is the prince?"
Ogboma spat at Seiwowei's feet. "A true king does not kill his own people."
Seiwowei's lips curled into a sinister smile. He stepped closer, whispering so only the elder could hear. "Then watch your people die, one by one."
With a swift nod, he signaled the executioner. The blade flashed, and Ogboma's head rolled to the ground. A scream rippled through the crowd. Mothers shielded their children, warriors clenched their fists, but none dared move.
One by one, the elders fell.
Ama-Ogbo drowned in its own silence.
In the shadows of the marketplace, a hooded figure clenched his fists. The air was thick with the smell of blood and burning flesh. The time for silence was over.
Hope had to rise again.
The resistance had begun.