Before stone towers scarred the skies before kingdoms learned the cruelty of iron, the world belonged to waters. The greatest of them—the River Omu—flowed like a living creature, curling through jungles older than memory. Its waters whispered prophecies, and its mist carried forgotten spirits.
Beside this river, beneath towering iroko trees, stood a lonely hut—crooked, ancient, clothed in creeping vines. Charms hung like sleeping bats from its roof: bone-rattles, clay discs etched with runes, and feathers of creatures no longer living. Inside, the blue witch flames floated in a circle around Mother Isalena, the high witch of the Southern Realm. Her tangled white hair fell like roots down her back. Her eyes shone with secrets carved into her soul before the pyramids were even dreamed of.
Before her knelt at her daughters:
Nkema: Tall, fierce, proud—the firstborn. Her presence felt like fire under tension.
Nkemesit: Quiet, gentle, observant—the shadow behind the flame.
The river outside murmured louder, as if listening.
Isalena's voice cracked the stillness. "My daughters… tonight, you learn why you exist."
Nkema bowed her head.
Nkemesit clutched her knees.
"You are daughters of the throne," Isalena said. "Our lineage serves kings and princes. Your souls were woven to theirs before you first breathed."
The blue flames swayed as though nodding.
"I should have borne three daughters," she confessed. "Two to become wives of the princes… and the third to bear witches for the next line of kings."
Her hands trembled slightly. "But the river denied me a third child. I do not know why. The ancestors have veiled the reason."
A cold wind slithered through the hut. The sisters exchanged a silent glance.
"Soon," their mother continued, "the princes will come to seek your hands. You must be prepared. What I teach you now must follow you to your graves."
She taught them the rituals of their bloodline:
Battle-shadow rites—to slip their spirits into battlefields and protect their husbands from death.
Under-bed conjurations—mixtures of herbs and river-sand that opened the sleeping mind for astral travel.
Bindings of breath—silent vows that locked a witch's soul to royal blood.
Nkema absorbed every word like a queen already crowned. Nkemesit learned them with quiet, trembling reverence.
Then Isalena's voice grew low. So low even the river hushed itself.
"There is a secret," she whispered. "The greatest forbidden knowledge of our line."
The flames thinned until they were needles of blue light.
"No witch must ever attempt it. Not even a queen."
The sisters leaned in.
"If a witch eats the heart of a king," Isalena said slowly, "and speaks the ancient death-incantation… she becomes immortal."
The words hung in the air like something alive. "Ageless. Unfading. Bound to earth until the last star dies."
Nkemesit shuddered. Nkema's eyes sharpened like blades.
"But none who tried survived the ritual," Isalena warned. "It twists the soul. It curses the land. It ends kingdoms. This is a knowledge you carry only because I leave no third daughter behind."
Her breath trembled at the end. The river resumed whispering.
Far beyond the river hut, beyond roaring waterfalls and red-soil plains, rose the mighty Stone Court of Oloran. Built between mountains shaped like spears, the kingdom echoed with the legacy of a ruler unmatched.
King Akor, the Unbroken—a legend, carved into the world. No battlefield had ever defeated him. No spear had pierced his flesh. His war drum alone could silence rebellions.
But even kings must bow to time.
Akor sat upon the great lion-throne, coughing the dust of age. Behind him stood his queen, Avela, herself a witch—cold, wise, and bound to the king by fate and ancient oaths. She alone could see when a king's spirit thinned.
She placed her hand on Akor's shoulder. "My king… prepare your house. The ancestors call."
Akor nodded with the calm of one who had seen centuries of blood.
He summoned the Chief Priest—Isalena's kin and protector of witch-lineages. Then, he called the elders, warlords, generals, and councillors.
"My time draws near," he told them. "I must crown my heir while breath remains."
A day was chosen. A marriage was set. A kingdom held its breath.
Meanwhile, far south of the earth, the Kingdoms of the Sun flourished under the watchful gaze of the old gods. And of these kingdoms, none shone brighter than Elara, the City of Light, home to the Royal House of Imoku. But for the past decade, a creeping shadow had devoured the city's hope. This darkness was not born of war or plague but of a tradition twisted by fate.
For ten years, Princess Adanna, gifted by the Sun Gods with the power of healing, had been sought by the finest princes in the known world. And for ten years, they had all failed. The trial was simple, yet lethal: three riddles, asked on three consecutive days. Failure on any single day meant immediate death. The first riddle, deceptively small, was the ultimate barrier: a tiny item concealed within the Princess's hand, demanding an answer no wisdom could divine. The Executioner's Field, once a pristine ceremonial ground, was now known simply as the Mound of Dust, a silent testament to the folly of pride.
The kingdom of Elara grew heavy with grief and fear, their Princess becoming less a beacon of light and more a beautiful, sorrowful tombstone. But the tide of hopeful ambition never ceased. And so, another year dawned, and across the vast ocean, a lone vessel began its arduous journey from the Western Realms, carrying two sons: one driven by the duty of war, the other by a courage born of deep, unyielding wisdom.
The Great Hall of the Western Kingdom of Aziza was a place of polished obsidian floors and pillars carved with the history of a hundred glorious wars. At the head of the royal dais sat King Oba, mighty but diminished, his spirit eaten away by an unnamed wasting disease.
Queen Amadi wept softly, her gaze fixed on her younger son. "It is madness, Nnamdi," the Queen pleaded. "The Prince of Nkanu failed last year! What hope has my youngest, my poet, against a force that claims the lives of Kings?"
Nnamdi, the younger Prince, stood tall. "It is not the strength of the spear that opens the door of the mind, but the key of truth. Our kingdom sickens. Her gift is our only cure. I will go."
Then, a deep, resonant voice cut through the dissent. Prince Odion, the elder son, a towering man whose scars told tales of glory, stepped forward. "The boy speaks true. Nnamdi may shrink from the spear, but his counsel has often saved the spear. I will go with him. We shall not return without Princess Adanna."
The King, rousing himself with a strange, sudden energy, gripped his war-staff and nodded slowly. "Go, my sons. Let the wisdom of the poet be guarded by the might of the warrior. Bring us the healer."
The farewell was a grand, mournful ceremony. The royal war galley, the Spear of Aziza, was loaded with gifts and a small, official escort. What the parents did not know was Odion's true plan. A separate fleet of hundreds of fighting vessels, laden with his most veteran soldiers, slipped silently out of the hidden military harbours. Their orders were simple and grim: Follow at a discreet distance. If Prince Nnamdi fails the first riddle, the mission is no longer a courtship. It is war.
Days later, they reached the Isle of Ota—a vital trading post—to replenish their stores. Here, Nnamdi noticed a small, wretched crowd flogging a corpse tied to a wooden frame. "He was a debtor," the local chief replied. "And by our law, until his debts are paid, the creditors may take their due from his flesh." Nnamdi implored his brother. "The kingdom's treasury is vast. A few thousand cowries will not be missed. We must pay it. We must release him." Against his fiercest protest, Odion reluctantly paid the gold, and the final debts were settled. The bruised body was finally afforded the simple dignity of a burial. It was a small act, yet it was a turning point on their fateful journey.
Scarcely had the Spear of Aziza returned to the open sea when a stowaway was discovered—a diminutive man, dark as polished stone, lurking in the cargo hold. The captain ordered the man to be thrown overboard.
"Wait!" Nnamdi commanded. "Before the sea claims him, let us hear his tongue. What is your purpose here, stranger?"
"My purpose, noble Prince, is to witness the riddle," the small man replied. "I seek only to see what no man has yet survived. I offer myself, my eyes, and my counsel to your service."
Odion scoffed, but Nnamdi felt a strange kinship with the man who had been cast out by law. He commanded that the dwarf—for he was indeed one of the rare folk known for their skill in stone—be fed and clothed, and that he would serve the younger Prince directly. They called him simply Stoneway, and he moved about the ship like a shadow, observing everything.
After weeks of sailing, the Spear of Aziza finally approached the legendary City of Light, Elara. Seventy-seven vessels—each bearing the royal standard of a hopeful, doomed kingdom—lay anchored in the immense harbour.
King Imoku and Queen Nneka of Elara were noble, yet their eyes held a profound sadness. "Prince Nnamdi of Aziza," King Imoku greeted him. "Are you truly prepared to place your life on the altar of the riddle?"
"My King, I have travelled too far to change my mind," Nnamdi replied.
That evening, the great halls erupted with celebration. Then, the moment arrived. The Princess Adanna emerged. She was not merely beautiful; she was a creature of painful, impossible light. Her beauty was indeed beyond human imagination.
The day of the first trial was charged with an electric tension. The Princess Adanna stepped forward, her face betraying no emotion, her gown covering her fully. She raised her right arm and clenched her fist, holding it out above the assembled princes.
Her voice, clear as a chime, echoed across the field: "What small thing, hidden from all sight, rests within the hollow of my palm? Guess and live. Fail and perish."
The scholars shook their heads in silent defeat. The hour of the guess drew near, and the failure of all princes was declared. But Nnamdi walked calmly past them.
"If I guess correctly, what will be the fate of the other seventy-six princes and their men?" Nnamdi challenged the King.
The King, confident in the riddle's protection, swore a decree: all men would be spared if Nnamdi succeeded. Nnamdi turned back to the Princess. He raised his voice and shouted:
"Within your palm, Princess, is the shaved hair from your right armpit!"
The silence that followed was absolute. The Princess froze, her composure shattering. Slowly, agonizingly, her clenched fist opened.