The palace was a colossal edifice of black stone and burnished bronze, its sweeping arches and obsidian domes etched with àrokò, ancient symbolic markings meant to confuse the uninitiated and ward off evil spirits. As they crossed into the inner sanctum, the hush of the courtyard was broken only by the echoing rhythm of bàtá drums from an unseen room, their beats sharp and ominous, not for celebration, but for intimidation.
They waited for hours in a chamber adorned with towering masks of ancestral kings. Each was carved from sacred iroko wood, each face bearing the same expressionless, heavy judgment. When their names were finally called, it felt less like an invitation to an audience and more like a summons to a sentencing.
The throne room itself radiated a measured, suffocating menace. Incense curled from heavy iron pots shaped like serpent heads. Massive cloth banners of royal purple and charcoal hung from the high, vaulted ceiling, embroidered with shimmering silver symbols of power: the ọ̀pá àṣẹ (the staff of command), the crocodile (strength cloaked in silence), and the tortoise (cunning in stillness).
King Rega IV sat high above on a throne inlaid with gold and powdered malachite, a young man still, but already possessed of the cold arrogance of ten lifetimes. His robe was not of silk or cotton but of layered aso-ibèbè, a rough and ancient weave said to be worn by oracles and spirits. His skin gleamed from anointing oils, his wrists heavy with brass cuffs etched with proverbs.
Flanking him were two bodyguards in black agbada, silent as tombs, their faces hidden by carved wooden masks. Another man stood at a respectful distance: older, lean, and clothed simply in a black robe with orange embroidery. His presence was somehow more terrifying than the guards.
"What is it you have to report?" the King asked.
Chinakah stepped forward and delivered her report with the clarity and formality expected in the court, her voice steady, her posture firm. She recounted Oko Egan's escape, Sadia Munda's death, and the father that had been taken captive.
Rega's eyes sharpened with each word. His hands steepled under his chin as he listened, his earlier boredom vanishing like vapor. When she finished, his silence grew heavy, dangerous.
"Is that all you have to report?"
"Also," Gethii began, stepping forward, "there are mushrooms—"
He never finished.
One of the guards vanished from her place beside the throne and reappeared behind Gethii like a specter of shadow and speed. Before he could even flinch, his head was slammed into the polished marble floor with a sound like a large calabash cracking open.
The entire room seemed to breathe in at once.
Blood trickled from the corner of Gethii's jaw. He groaned, dazed and disoriented, tasting the sharp, metallic bite in his mouth as stars danced in his vision.
"I wasn't asking you," the King said. His tone had dropped to a dangerous degree. His gaze returned to Chinakah, long, silent, dissecting every twitch she made. "Is that everything?"
Chinakah swallowed, the sound loud in the oppressive silence. "I… I believe so, Your Majesty."
The advisor's voice floated into the space. "And what of her son?"
Chinakah's breath caught. The delay was imperceptible—but in this room, under that unwavering gaze, it was as loud as thunder.
"Leonotis… Sadia's son has come into my care, Your Majesty."
There was a pause. A slow, dangerous, stretching silence.
Then King Rega smiled.
It was not a kind smile. It was the smile of a python that sees a crippled rat and knows there is no longer any need for haste. "Ah. So you did lie to me. A lie of omission."
Chinakah stiffened, her composure beginning to fray. "It was nerves, Your Majesty. Being in your presence… it must have flustered me."
Rega's eyes lit up, not with amusement, but with a chilling delight at the scent of fear. "Hmm," he said thoughtfully, rising slowly from his throne. The gold earrings on his ears clinked softly against one another like deadly warning bells.
He stepped down the dais, each footstep echoing with deliberate weight across the cold marble floor. He stopped just short of Chinakah, so close she could smell the expensive, cloying oils on his skin.
"I am not your uncle," he said. "You do not stammer in my presence. You do not lie. And you do not withhold." He let the last word hang in the air. "You didn't mention him in your original report either, the one you submitted to your superior. You see, I have received word from a certain orphanage. The boy you dropped off there… he took an attribute stone test."
He paused again, his silence deliberate, heavy with imminent danger. Even the court scribes had stopped writing, their quills hovering over their parchment.
"When did you find out about his magic affinity?"
Chinakah's mouth was dry. She knew the king was searching for something. She forced the words past the tightness in her throat.
"Yes, like his mother, he has black magic affinity, my king. "
The King's smile vanished. "No. That's the lie you and Sadia Munda told to keep my father off his trail. But I know what he truly is."
Chinakah was utterly bewildered. What was the King talking about? What had happened at the orphanage?
"I swear to you, I don't know what you're-"
"Alright, I've heard enough, kill them both," the King said cutting her off, his voice flat and devoid of emotion, gesturing curtly to his black-cloaked bodyguards.
Gethii, finally managing to push himself up from the floor, shoved the bodyguard away with a desperate surge of adrenaline. "Please, Your Majesty, give us another chance-"
The King waved him off dismissively but then he recognized Gethii. "Wait… aren't you the legendary Kingsguard? The one who fought off a dragon? You were the only Kingsguard that got away during the coup. I was hoping to test my skills against yours then." He leaned forward, his eyes gleaming with a strange excitement. "But the rumors are true you only have one arm left. Tell you what. Fight my guards, the Ajẹ́ N'pò, my shadow twins. If you can survive against them… I'll let you live."
Gethii's pulse quickened. The Ajẹ́ N'pò, the twin bodyguards of the throne—rumors claimed they were raised from the sacred groves of Ìjẹ̀bú-Ọde.
"Your Majesty, please—" Gethii began, but the King cut him off again."
"That's the only way you survive this," the King said, his voice leaving no room for argument.
Gethii glanced at Chinakah, her face pale with fear and guilt. "We're going to survive this," he said, his voice low and firm, trying to reassure both her and himself.
"First you lie to me, then yourselves," the King said, a cruel amusement dancing in his eyes. The two black-cloaked bodyguards drew their swords, the blades whispering from their sheaths, and settled into a combat stance.
Gethii looked around desperately. A servant, seemingly having anticipated this turn of events, rushed forward and tossed a sword, Gethii's sword, to him. The King was waiting for this, Gethii thought grimly. How else would a servant be standing by with his sword he left at the gate with him? If he wants a fight, I'll give him one. He took the weapon, the familiar weight grounding him slightly. He took a deep breath, focusing his mind, and offered a silent prayer to the Sword Orisha, Ada Ogun, for strength and guidance. He felt his nerves calm as his ase surged higher with his resolve.
"Begin," said the King, his voice echoing in the vast throne room.