The chamber was modest by palace standards, yet it spoke of ancient dignity and refined taste. Rich kente cloth in deep gold and crimson patterns adorned the walls, their geometric designs telling stories of ancestors long passed to the realm of spirits. Carved wooden masks gazed down from their alcoves with serene expressions, their eyes holding the wisdom of generations. Low stools of polished ebony sat beside chairs crafted from precious woods.
Four guards stood sentinel in the corners, their armor woven from royal kente reinforced with bronze plates, spears held at respectful attention as they maintained their vigil with the stillness of carved statues.
Seated upon an ancient couch of leopard skin and silk sat Reloua, with Teleu positioned at her side like a shadow made flesh. She had finally penetrated the inner sanctum of the palace, and word had been sent to the king of her return. Now she waited, her thoughts swirling, until the sound of approaching footsteps drew her from her reverie.
King Donkeu Sichom appeared in the doorway, his usually measured pace quickened by urgency, his eyes red-rimmed with the weight of sleepless nights and barely contained emotion.
The moment his gaze fell upon his daughter's veiled form, relief crashed over him like a breaking dam—three weeks of torment, of imagining her lifeless body in some forgotten ravine, of preparing for war with Ankh, all dissolved in an instant. His shoulders sagged as if a mountain had been lifted from them, and for a moment, the mighty King of the Gold Kingdom looked like nothing more than a father who had found his lost child.
Behind him came a procession of palace residents: servants bearing the marks of worry and sleepless vigil, and the three women whose presence had brought such change to the royal household.
Rose Sichom moved with her usual poise, though her eyes held a coldness that could freeze flame. Beside her walked Amida, and finally their mother Cynthia, each maintaining perfect composure despite the tumultuous weeks that had passed. Old Tai brought up the rear, his weathered face brightening for the first time in memory.
What a tenacious wretch—could she not have rotted in that forest? Cynthia thought, her face a mask of noble concern that betrayed nothing of the venom flowing through her mind.
The king's composure cracked as he drew near his daughter, and with a sob that seemed torn from his very soul, he gathered her into his arms. His embrace was fierce, desperate, as if he feared she might vanish like morning mist if he loosened his grip.
"I thought I would never see you again," he whispered, his voice breaking "I am so glad you have returned to me."
A warmth Reloua had almost forgotten crept through her body. The past weeks had been full of fear and uncertainty, but here, in her father's arms, she tasted home once more. Though King Donkeu could be faulted for many things—his political blindness, his neglect, his weakness for beautiful women—she knew without doubt that his love for his children burned true as gold in fire.
Cough! Cough!
The king released his daughter and stepped back, his royal mask sliding back into place. He moved to one of the ancient chairs, and sat with the dignity expected of his station. "All of you, be seated. Guards, leave us." His voice carried the authority of absolute rule.
The small assembly arranged themselves about the chamber—Cynthia and her daughters claiming chairs closest to the king, while old Tai positioned himself near the door. The guards filed out with perfect discipline, their footsteps fading until only the chosen few remained. Yet Teleu stood unmoved beside Reloua's chair, his stance that of a sworn protector awaiting his lady's command.
"Insolence!" Rose's voice cut through the silence like a blade of ice. "Who do you think you are to disobey the king's direct command? Where did this bumpkin crawl from?" Her words dripped with disdain, each syllable calculated to wound.
Teleu's expression remained as unmoved as carved stone—such petty barbs could not penetrate armor forged in far harsher fires. But Reloua would not allow this slight to pass unchallenged, for it touched upon her own authority and judgment.
"I told him to stay behind" she replied, "You have no authority to question his actions or mine."
These interlopers who had slithered into her father's court like serpents into paradise would learn their place soon enough. The true heir of the Gold Kingdom had returned.
"He shows disrespect to the king himself," Rose pressed, unwilling to yield ground. "Such behavior should be condemned by any subject loyal to the crown. I have never seen his face in this palace before—where exactly did he come from?"
"That is quite true," Amida added, though her voice lacked her sister's venom. She was a vision of rare beauty, her skin the rich hue of polished ebony touched with caramel, her form curved like a master craftsman's lute. Her lips were full and inviting, her eyes large and luminous as a gazelle's, framed by lashes that seemed to brush her cheeks with each blink. Every line of her body spoke of feminine allure, every movement a subtle invitation that could ensnare the hearts of kings and beggars alike.
Unlike her sister, who sought to create trouble for Reloua, Amida's gaze lingered on Teleu with unmistakable interest. There was something about this mysterious guardian that stirred her curiosity—and perhaps more.
"Rose, you should not speak to your sister in such a way, even if you speak truly," Cynthia finally intervened, adding her voice to her daughters'. "The king's word is absolute law. This man should not remain."
"Remove yourself!" Rose commanded, pointing toward the door like a queen dismissing a servant.
Still Teleu remained motionless, his duty clear and unwavering. His role was simple, and he would not deviate from it regardless of threats or insults.
King Donkeu shook his head wearily—why must they create discord on a day that should bring only joy? His daughter had returned from the very jaws of death, yet already the palace politics resumed their poisonous dance.
"Silence, all of you," he commanded, his voice carrying the weight of absolute authority. "This is a day of celebration—the return of my beloved daughter. How can you behave in such a manner?" His gaze moved from Teleu to Reloua. "Daughter, where is Dakare? Tell me who this man is, and why he should remain when I have commanded otherwise."
Cynthia's gaze narrowed almost imperceptibly as the king's words settled in the chamber. She had grown accustomed to wielding influence over Donkeu like a master archer drawing a bow—confident in his dependence upon her counsel, secure in his weakness for her beauty and supposed wisdom. He had been clay in her hands, malleable and trusting. But now the ghost of his late wife had returned in the form of his daughter, bringing with her the same dangerous influence that had once threatened Cynthia's carefully laid plans. With Reloua's presence casting its shadow over the court once more, achieving her ultimate goals would prove far more treacherous.
The girl would need to disappear again—permanently this time.
"Father, I would not be standing here before you if not for him," Reloua said after drawing a steadying breath, her voice carrying the weight of hard-won survival. "Enemies hunt me still—I am safe nowhere in this kingdom. I need him beside me and my brother at all times." Her eyes found Teleu briefly, gratitude flickering in their depths. Then her expression crumbled, grief replacing determination. "As for Dakare, he... he..."
The words died in her throat like flowers touched by frost.
"I understand, my child." The king's voice softened, for he knew well the bond between his daughter and her faithful guardian.
Dakare had been more than a protector—he was the brother she had never had by blood, a pillar of strength who had sworn his life to her service. How could his loss not wound her deeply?
"Tell me everything that transpired. Did those dogs from Ankh orchestrate this treachery?"
"No, Father. I was ambushed while traveling toward Ankh," Reloua replied, her voice distant as memory's ghost walked through her words. "It had to be someone with intimate knowledge of my journey's route and timing." Her gaze swept the chamber, studying each face with careful discretion.
"WHO DARES?" The king's roar shook the very walls, his face contorting with rage. "Who dares play traitor in my own kingdom? Who dares raise a hand against my daughter?" His eyes blazed crimson as he continued, "I swear by my crown and by the bones of my ancestors, I will find these serpents and make them pay in blood and agony!"
The truth of old Kinte's warnings crashed over him like a tide—his reign had indeed grown soft with complacency, riddled with holes through which enemies crept like plague rats.
When his fury finally spent itself, Donkeu turned toward Teleu and performed something that shocked every person in the chamber—he bowed deeply, a king humbling himself before a common warrior.
"You have my eternal gratitude for your service, and for delivering my daughter from the jaws of death. Rich rewards shall be yours, I swear it." His sincerity was absolute, for Reloua's life was worth more to him than pride or protocol.
A glint of surprise flickered in Teleu's eyes. This king bears little resemblance to the weak fool described in rumors from distant courts. He possesses the steel of true leadership beneath his grief. What malignancy has poisoned his reign so thoroughly? Not that such matters concern me—I shall profit regardless of this kingdom's fate.
"Continue, my daughter. Tell me every detail of what befell you," the king commanded, settling back into his chair with the focused intensity of a general planning war. "If I can identify these traitors, they will learn the true meaning of royal justice."
"My escort and I had traveled barely half a day's journey toward Ankh when death found us in the forest..." Reloua began, weaving her tale with careful precision, altering certain details to conceal her future machinations while preserving the essential truth.
She spoke of the massacre of her guards, of Dakare's final sacrifice to secure her escape, of her desperate flight through dark woods until fate delivered her to Teleu's hiding place, and finally of how this mysterious warrior had slaughtered three trained killers with almost casual efficiency.
Throughout her narration, King Donkeu's expression shifted like weather over a battlefield—his jaw clenched so tightly that tendons stood out like bowstrings, his knuckles whitened as his fists tightened with each fresh revelation of his daughter's peril.
When she finished, he spoke through gritted teeth, his voice a promise of vengeance carved in stone: "By the gods old and new, I will tear this kingdom apart stone by stone until I find the architect of this betrayal. They will rue the day they decided to make war upon House Sichom."