The silence in the arboreal throne room was not merely an absence of sound; it was a substance, thick and testing, poured into the space between them. Moremi felt it pressing against her eardrums, against her skin, probing for the cracks in her composure. She stood, a statue of faded purple and coral in the face of that dark, luminous mask, and she gave it nothing. She breathed, slow and deep, drawing in the scents of ozone and ancient wood, using the techniques she had learned as a queen to still the frantic fluttering of her heart. The Esimirin's blessing was a cool shard of resolve lodged deep within her, a secret well of calm in the storm of her fear.
Finally, a sound emerged. It was not a voice, not as she understood it. It was a vibration that seemed to originate from the very dais, a low, resonant hum that traveled through the polished wood floor and up through the soles of her feet. It was a language of resonance and intent, a physical feeling more than an audible word. Yet, in her mind, the meaning formed with crystalline clarity.
You are not of the fleeing herd.
The statement hung in the air, neither question nor accusation, but a simple, observed fact. The voice in her head was deep, timbred like the lowest note of a talking drum, and utterly devoid of emotion.
Moremi inclined her head, a graceful, deliberate gesture. She had crafted this persona, this backstory, during the long, silent walk. Now, she had to become her.
"I am not,"she replied, her own voice sounding small and brightly human in the vast, resonant space, yet she kept it steady. "The herd was panicked. I chose not to be."
A slight tilt of the magnificent, dark mask. The luminescent resin in its carvings seemed to pulse with a faint, curious rhythm.
Choice. A luxury for those who believe they have power. You believe you have power, little bird?
"I believe I have a mind," she countered, carefully avoiding any tone of defiance, stating it as another simple fact. "And a history that has taught me that screaming and running often lead one into the jaws of the leopard, not away from them."
A history. The resonant hum deepened, and she could have sworn she felt the very tree around them thrum in response. You wear the beads of a people who build their nests on the ground, who cut the skin of the earth with ploughs. Your cloth is the work of their looms. Yet you stand here, unshaken. Your story is a tangled vine. Unravel it.
This was the interrogation. Not with hot irons and threats, but with an immense, patient pressure. She had to be perfect. Every word a carefully placed stone on the path she was building over an abyss.
"I am called Morayo," she said, using a common name from a distant province, one that meant 'I see joy,' a bitter irony that twisted in her gut. "I was born in the city of Oyo, a niece to a minor chief. My… value was found in a proposed marriage to a powerful, but cruel, old warlord from a neighboring tribe. A alliance to bolster my uncle's standing." She allowed a flicker of remembered distaste to cross her features, a genuine emotion she could borrow from the memory of courtly suitors she had found odious. "I found I had a price, but no voice in the transaction. So, I took myself out of the market. I fled during the last new moon, with little more than what I wear. I sought refuge in Ile-Ife, a city known for its wisdom. I arrived only to find it burning. It seems I trade one cage for another."
She let her gaze travel around the chamber, taking in the soaring, organic architecture, the play of green light and deep shadow. She was laying the groundwork, painting herself as a woman of spirit, of thwarted agency, a refugee with no deep loyalty to Ile-Ife. A woman who understood being a pawn.
The King was silent for a long moment, processing her story. The hum had ceased, leaving the room in that profound, listening quiet once more.
You speak of cages. You see this as a cage?
It was a dangerous question. To call his throne room a cage was an insult. To deny it might seem obsequious. Moremi chose a third path—honesty, from the perspective of her character.
"I do not yet know what it is," she said, meeting the blank gaze of his mask. "A cage is defined by its bars and its purpose. I see no bars here. Only… a different kind of order. One I do not understand." She paused, then took a calculated risk. "Your people… they do not speak. Not as I know speech. They move as one. They build in the heavens. They are unlike any 'beast' the stories of my people describe."
The moment the word 'beast' left her lips, she feared she had gone too far. It was a term of fear and denigration from Ile-Ife. But her strategy was defiance born of curiosity, not aggression. She was presenting herself as a rational mind, confronted with a reality that contradicted her myths.
A new sound emerged from the King—a series of softer, clicking vibrations, almost like the chatter of a gecko, but deeper. It was, she realized with a start, a sound of amusement.
Beast.The mental voice carried a wry, ancient humor. A simple word for a thing that is not understood. Your people, who fear the forest, who must conquer the earth to feel safe, they see our harmony with the wild as savagery. They hear our language of root and wind as silence. They are deafened by their own noise.
This was more than he had offered anyone from her world, she was sure of it. He was engaging. Her boldness was not angering him; it was intriguing him. She was a novel specimen, a talking bird that asked questions about the nature of the sky.
"Is that why you raid them?" she asked, her voice soft, deliberately non-accusatory, as if seeking to complete a philosophical equation. "Because they are… noisy? Because they do not understand?"
The King shifted on his root-throne, the raffia of his form whispering like a field of dry grass in a breeze. The movement was fluid, powerful.
We take what is needed. The metal they dig from the earth, which they hoard and bang into shapes of dominance. The grains they force from the soil, which they store in great piles while the true life of the earth goes hungry. They are a blight of imbalance. They spread their smoke and their fear, and they do not listen. So, we remind them. We are the consequence of their disregard. We are the rustle in the dark that their fires cannot banish.
His explanation was not one of mindless hatred, but of a cold, ecological logic. It was a predator's rationale, the forest itself pruning a diseased branch. The realization was chilling. This was not a war of territory or riches; it was a war of philosophies, of ways of being. And in this worldview, Ile-Ife was the aggressor.
"And what of me?" Moremi asked, steering the conversation back to her immediate peril. "Am I a reminder? A piece of stored grain? Or just a consequence?"
The King leaned forward, the dark mask looming. The luminescent patterns flared, casting shifting blue-green shadows across her face. The scent of ozone grew stronger.
You are an anomaly. A flicker of a different flame. You did not run. You did not scream. You look upon me not with the blind terror of a beast, but with the assessing gaze of a… rival? An equal?The concept seemed to fascinate him. You have a silence within you that is not fear. It is strength. I can feel it. Like the deep, still water of a hidden pool.
Moremi's blood ran cold. The Esimirin's blessing was being sensed, perceived as a part of her aura. He was drawn to the very power that was her shield.
You asked about our silence, the King hummed, shifting the subject with an air of finality. Speech, as you know it, is a crude tool. It is full of lies, of wasted breath, of noise that obscures truth. We speak with the whole of our being. The rustle of our raffia tells of our movement, our intent, our health. The vibrations of our chests convey complex thought. The forest speaks to us, and we answer. It is a conversation your people lost the ability to hear long ago.
He rose to his full, imposing height. He was a giant of woven grass and ancient wood, a living embodiment of the wild. He descended from the dais and began to circle her, a slow, predatory, yet appraising motion. She felt his presence like a change in atmospheric pressure, a static charge on her skin.
A rare jewel should not be cast amongst the common stones, his voice resonated in her skull, closer now, more intimate. You have spirit. You have a silence that speaks. To make you a slave would be to break a perfectly tempered blade. To return you would be to waste a resource of immense value.
He stopped directly in front of her, so close she could see the intricate, whorled patterns in the wood of his mask, could feel the cool, dry air that his raffia body seemed to exhale.
The Ugbò have a king. But we have not had a queen in ten generations. Not since the last one who could truly listen to the forest and answer with a human heart. A bridge between two worlds.
A wave of pure, undiluted dread washed over Moremi, so powerful it nearly broke her serene facade. This was not part of the plan. This was a thousand times worse. A slave could be ignored, could observe from the shadows. A queen… a queen was at the center of everything. A queen was seen, watched, touched.
Your defiance is not a flaw; it is the fire that makes you valuable, the King's mental voice was decisive, final. I claim you. Not as a captive, but as a consort. You will be my voice to the silent ones. You will be my anointed queen. You will learn our ways, and in doing so, you will help me decide the ultimate fate of your noisy, blind, and foolish people.
He raised one of his long-fingered, wooden hands. He did not touch her face, but hovered it just above her crown, as if bestowing a blessing.
From this moment, you are no longer Morayo, the runaway. You are Moremi, Queen of the Ugbò. The forest is your palace. Its whispers are your courtiers. And I… I am your king.
Internally, Moremi's mind was a whirlwind. Triumph and terror warred within her. This is it, a part of her screamed. This is the access I needed! I am at the very heart of power! I can learn everything! But another, more primal part wailed in despair. Anointed queen. Consort. The words implied an intimacy that made her soul recoil. The situation had spiraled far beyond espionage into something deeply personal and perilous. The path to salvation for Ile-Ife now wound through the bedchamber of its most terrifying enemy.
She looked up at the fearsome, beautiful mask of the Beast King, at the pulsing, luminous patterns that were the only windows to his inscrutable mind. She had achieved a monumental victory in her mission. And in that very same moment, she had never been more utterly, completely, and horrifyingly lost.
She dipped her head in the faintest of acknowledgments, her heart hammering a frantic, trapped rhythm against her ribs.
"As you will it,"she whispered, the words tasting like ash and opportunity on her tongue.