The orphanage yard was a bleak, dusty patch of ground enclosed by a high metal fence.
The other boys moved with a weary resignation. One of them, a skinny boy with hollow eyes, approached Leonotis.
"Welcome to hell," he said, his voice flat. "How old are you?"
"Twelve," Leonotis blurted out, the carefully rehearsed "ten" completely forgotten in his nervousness.
A flicker of something – hope? – crossed the boy's gaunt face, but it vanished as quickly as it appeared.
"Twelve," he repeated tonelessly. "Right. If you ever figure out a way to get out of this place, let me know. I've never been able to find one."
In a shadowy corner of the yard, a young girl with wide, observant eyes watched their interaction.
That night, Leonotis tossed and turned on his lumpy mattress.
He drifted into a dream, a vivid image of a beautiful woman with long, flowing hair, but her face remained frustratingly out of focus.
"Who are you?" he asked, his voice echoing in the dream.
She simply smiled, a sad, knowing smile.
"Come to me; we need your help," she whispered.
Then, the scene shifted.
The beautiful woman was gone, replaced by his father, his face contorted in pain, wrapped in thick, black tree branches. His father's eyes glowed with an unnatural green light.
"Help me, son," he rasped, his voice filled with terror.
Leonotis woke with a gasp, the word "Father!" escaping his lips.
He sat up, his heart pounding, but the details of the dream had already begun to slip away like water through his fingers.
He lay back down, a vague sense of unease clinging to him, and eventually drifted back to sleep.
The next day at the Stylwater Orphanage was a brutal induction — not unlike an initiation rite, but without the ceremony, without the honor.
In the Kingdom of Liptus, there were rituals for crossing thresholds: a child's first steps, the first tooth, the first hunt, the first rain of the season. Each had its songs, its prayers, its presence of elders.
But Leonotis' first day here came with no drums, no incantations — only grime, labor, and the suffocating scent of bleach and boiled yam.
The sackcloth uniform scratched like punishment. Rough, woven from burlap or something close to it, it hung awkwardly on his small frame. It wasn't clothing — it was a statement: you belong to no one now.
The seams rubbed raw against his underarms, and by midday, small welts had begun to form beneath his collarbone.
The odor in the building was a sour mix — shea butter, stale egusi, wet floors, and the sharp chemical bite of lye soap that soaked everything: their clothes, their skin, their beds.
Chores began at daybreak, when the akọko leaves outside the dorm rustled with the breeze and the cockerel crowed from the compound wall.
They were marched out in rows, barefoot, into the yard where buckets were waiting.
Slop buckets, heavy with rotting food and bathwater, were dumped into a pit behind the latrines.
Leonotis, new and small, had to drag his alone.
The Yoruba believed work built character, but here, it felt like it was breaking him down instead — unmaking him.
"Let us labor by day so we do not see shame by night."
That was the phrase the senior caretaker barked at them as they scrubbed the dorm floors with their bare hands. It was one of many proverbs that floated through the halls like scripture, wielded more like sticks than songs of wisdom.
Leonotis scrubbed until his fingers wrinkled and burned, the soapy water stinging cuts he hadn't noticed.
The sun blazed through the open slats of the windows, and sweat slid into his eyes. His arms ached with the rhythm of work, the Oriki, or praise-songs of his ancestors, now buried beneath grime and fatigue.
When he finally laid down, the straw mattress scratching his cheek, his muscles screamed in protest.
He closed his eyes, and for a fleeting moment, he felt the weight of a sword hilt, heard Gethii's low command:
"Exercise every day, Leonotis. Practice the sword techniques with a pencil if you must."
The memory was a cruel whisper in the face of his utter depletion. A pencil? He barely had the strength to lift his own hand.
When they were finally given food, it came in a rusted tin bowl — watery stew, more liquid than substance, with a hint of spice and a few floating shreds of spinach.
He sat alone on the edge of a concrete step, the bowl warming his numb hands.
His stomach growled, but every swallow felt like chewing silence.
That's when he saw her again — the girl from earlier in the yard.
Her name, he had learned from a whispered correction during roll call, was Low.
She approached quietly, the hem of her white cotton dress brushing against the dusty floor. Unlike the other girls, she moved with a lightness, as if she knew how to tiptoe between trouble and attention.
Her dreadlocks were striking — thick coils that faded from deep black at the roots to a radiant blonde, almost as if the sun had taken root in her hair.
Her face was calm, open, with large brown eyes that seemed to listen more than look.
She didn't ask permission to sit. She just did.
Leonotis looked up warily.
Low didn't smile. But she offered a sliver of cassava root, pressed into his hand with a quiet, unceremonious grace.
Sharing food in Liptus tradition was not just kindness — it was trust, a sacred act of hospitality, a kinship gesture that defied rules and hierarchy.
"You new?" she asked softly, picking at her own bowl with practiced detachment.
Leonotis nodded, too tired to form words. He took the cassava slowly, chewing without tasting.
"They always push the new ones harder," she murmured. "To see if you'll break. Like goat's skin on the talking drum — if it's too soft, it won't speak. Too tight, it snaps."
She looked at him. Her eyes held something ancient. Not pity. Recognition.
"You're not going to snap. I can tell."
Leonotis didn't believe her. Not yet. But her voice was the first thing all day that didn't hurt.
"I saw you getting dropped off. Did your parents… did they die in the war?" she asked, her voice quiet.
"No," Leonotis said, frowning. "What war?"
A surprised silence fell over the small group of children huddled around the table.
"You don't know about the war?" one of the older boys asked. He glanced around at the others, then back at Leonotis. "You mean, not at all?"
Leonotis hesitated, wondering if he should mention his amnesia, but the thought felt too complicated to explain.
Low's expression was somber. "My parents were sent to explore the Dark Forest by the old King," she said, her voice barely a whisper. "They never came back. Then my older brother was called up… and so I ended up here."
"My mother was attacked by a tree creature," Leonotis said. "And my father… he was kidnapped by it."
Low looked surprised. "Plant monsters are from the Dark Forest and they don't usually come this far south. Your father… he's probably gone too."
"No," Leonotis said fiercely, a stubborn hope rising within him. "He's alive. I know it. And I'm going to rescue him as soon as Chinakah and Gethii come back from visiting the King."
The other children exchanged knowing glances.
"If the King called them," one of the older girls said with a bitter laugh, "they aren't coming back."
A cold dread washed over Leonotis.
He looked at the faces around him, each one etched with a quiet despair.
He realized then that every one of them had a guardian, a parent, someone who had been called to serve the King… and never returned.
A knot of worry tightened in his stomach for Chinakah and Gethii. Why hadn't they mentioned how dangerous the King seemed?
"Don't try to leave on your own," Low said quietly, her eyes filled with a grim understanding. "The ones who try to leave… they never come back the same."
The next morning, as Leonotis was scrubbing the grimy floor of the dining hall, the hulking caretaker, a man with a permanent scowl, stopped beside him.
"Heard you're actually twelve years old, boy."