PRINCESS ADJOA .
"Raise your head, Kwame Bediako."
The Supreme King's voice echoed through the great hall—calm, measured, almost gentle—yet heavy enough to silence even the torches crackling along the stone walls.
Kwame obeyed slowly.
Princess Adjoa stood a few steps behind him, her posture composed, her spine straight, her face carefully unreadable. From where she stood, she could see the fine tremor in Kwame's hands, the slight stiffness in his shoulders, as though he were bracing for a blow he could not dodge.
This was not a summons.
This was an examination.
The Supreme King sat upon the high throne carved from ancient wood, his crown resting lightly on his head, as though authority itself bowed to him. His eyes were sharp, observant—eyes that missed nothing and forgot even less. They moved slowly, deliberately, like a hunter studying prey that had already been cornered.
"You are the founder of Nyame Nhyira Motherless Babies Home," the King said. It was not a question.
"Yes, Your Majesty," Kwame replied, his voice steady but thin.
"How long has the home existed?"
"Twenty-two years, Your Majesty."
The King nodded once, his fingers tapping lightly against the arm of his throne.
"An admirable commitment," he said. "To care for children with no names, no lineage, no protection."
The words settled heavily in the hall.
Adjoa felt the weight behind them.
Children with no lineage.
Her chest tightened, but she did not move.
The King leaned forward slightly. "Tell me, Kwame Bediako—how does such a place survive?"
Kwame hesitated, only for a breath. "Through donations, Your Majesty. Charity. Occasional palace support."
"Occasional," the King repeated, tasting the word.
His gaze shifted—slowly, deliberately—to Adjoa.
"And yet," he continued, "I hear the home has recently received… generous aid."
The pause was intentional.
Adjoa stepped forward before Kwame could speak.
"Nyame Nhyira serves many forgotten children, Your Majesty," she said calmly. "It would be a shame for such a place to collapse due to neglect."
The King's eyes narrowed—not in anger, but in interest.
"You speak without being summoned, Princess Adjoa."
She lowered her head briefly. "Forgive me, Your Majesty. Silence felt… unwise."
A ripple of murmurs spread through the court like disturbed water.
The King did not rebuke her.
Instead, he smiled faintly.
"Wise," he echoed. "Or afraid?"
Adjoa lifted her gaze, meeting his eyes without flinching. "Sometimes they are the same."
The smile widened slightly—then vanished.
The King turned back to Kwame.
"Let us speak of your staff."
Kwame's throat bobbed. "Yes, Your Majesty."
"Records show many names over the years," the King said casually. "Caregivers. Matrons. Administrators."
He paused.
Just long enough for the air to tighten.
"Madam Esi Nyarko."
The hall went still.
Even the torches seemed to burn quieter.
Kwame's breath caught—just for a second.
Adjoa felt it like a blade pressed to her spine.
"She served faithfully," the King continued, his gaze fixed on Kwame's face. "Yet her name disappears from all recent records."
Kwame swallowed hard. "She… passed away, Your Majesty. Fifteen years ago."
"Did she?" the King asked softly.
Adjoa's pulse thundered in her ears.
"Yes," Kwame replied, forcing the word out. "She fell ill."
"Strange," the King murmured, rising slowly from his throne. "Because illness usually leaves a trail. Burial rites. Family claims. Mourning."
Kwame's hands clenched at his sides.
Adjoa stepped forward again.
"Your Majesty," she said smoothly, "Madam Esi Nyarko was a private woman. She had no close kin. The home handled her burial."
The King's gaze snapped to her.
"Did it?"
"Yes."
The silence that followed was suffocating.
The King studied her for a long moment. The torches hissed. Somewhere, a court official shifted his feet.
"You are very invested in this matron, Princess," the King said at last.
Adjoa inclined her head. "I am invested in truth."
The King chuckled softly.
"Ah. Truth." He leaned back. "A flexible thing, depending on who tells it."
Silence stretched.
Then he rose fully.
The court collectively held its breath.
"I have ruled long enough to recognize patterns," the Supreme King said, pacing slowly before them. "Secrets do not stay buried because they are heavy. They stay buried because many hands press them down."
His gaze lingered on Kwame.
Then on Adjoa.
"Tell me," he said, stopping directly before her, "who presses down this one?"
Kwame's knees nearly buckled.
Adjoa spoke before fear could reach her face.
"I do."
The court gasped.
The King stopped walking.
"You?" he asked quietly.
"Yes," Adjoa replied. "If there is a secret, I bear it."
Queen Owusu stiffened in the gallery.
The King descended the steps slowly until he stood before Adjoa, close enough that she could feel the weight of his presence.
"A dangerous claim," he said. "Are you prepared to defend it?"
"I am prepared to protect what must be protected," Adjoa answered.
"And what is that?"
"Innocent lives."
The King searched her face—long, hard, unblinking.
Then he turned away.
"Kwame Bediako," he said, "you will return to Nyame Nhyira tonight."
Kwame exhaled shakily. "Thank you, Your Majesty."
"But," the King added, lifting a finger, "tomorrow, I want every surviving record delivered to my council."
Adjoa's heart dropped.
"Every ledger," he continued. "Every name. Every transaction."
He glanced over his shoulder at her.
"Especially those that no longer exist."
The court erupted into whispers.
Adjoa bowed deeply, masking the storm inside her.
"As you command, Your Majesty."
The King returned to his throne, settling into it like a man who had already won.
"Dismissed."
Kwame staggered as they turned to leave.
"Princess Adjoa."
She froze.
"Yes, Your Majesty?"
The King smiled—slow, knowing.
"Truth has a way of walking back home."
Her blood ran cold.
"Yes, Your Majesty."
Outside the hall, Kwame collapsed against the wall, breathing hard.
"He knows," he whispered. "He knows."
Adjoa clenched her fists.
"No," she said quietly. "He suspects."
Kwame looked at her, eyes wild. "What do we do now?"
Adjoa lifted her chin, resolve burning through fear.
"Now," she said, "we make sure there is nothing left for him to find."
High above them, on the throne he had reclaimed, the Supreme King watched their retreat with patient eyes.
The hunt had begun.