The palace of Irele did not wake with songs. No drums thundered, no griots rehearsed verses of glory. Instead, silence reigned — an uneasy silence that clung to the red walls like mist before a storm.
The first Prince sat alone in his chamber, the flicker of a single oil lamp casting shadows across his face. Where others might have wept at leaving, his expression was unreadable, his dark eyes fixed on the ancestral mask that hung above the doorway. He had decided - he was going to Oyo- the central kingdom to begin his journey.
He pondered the dream he had — what meaning it carried, and whether it was tied to his journey.
The emperor's decree had reached Irele two nights ago. Six months. One crown. One throne. One life to be spared.
He rose, fastening the straps of his leather sandals with steady hands. Unlike the princes of other kingdoms, he had no loyal council fussing over him, no crowd of servants whispering blessings. His kingdom trusted power, not prayers.
A soft knock came at the door. His mother, the queen, entered. Her presence filled the room — majestic, stern, a woman whose beauty had long turned to steel. Behind her was the king.
The prince prostrated greeting his parents.
The queen smiled faintly and lifted him.
" Omo oba, dide - Child of a king, rise. "
The prince stood up and embraced his mother. " Maami- mother. "
Her hand patted his back, her eyes bright with tears she tried to hide. She knew he was strong, the finest warrior in the kingdom, but what mother does not worry for her son — no matter his strength?
" Do not abduct any man back home. " She teased softly, knowing her son too well.
He smiled mischievously. " I will bring back home the most beautiful man in Oyo Empire. "
The king cleared his throat. His voice was not needed; his presence alone shifted the air.
" Omo mi- my child. " he said, his gaze hard upon the prince. "You are leaving not for pleasure, but for destiny. Remember this. The emperor's decree is no child's game. Disciplin yourself. " his voice rumbled, steady as iron.
The prince lifted his head, lips curving into the faintest smile. " Father, a man without desire is but a hollow shell. Even warriors crave wine after battle. Why then should I be shamed for craving beauty? "
The king's eyes narrowed, thunder flashing in them. The prince lowered his gaze respectfully, but his words lingered in the air like smoke.
" What lies before you is not a hunt, not a bed of lovers. It is war disguised as trial. Six months will strip the weak from the strong, and the emperor's eyes will weigh every step you take."
The prince bowed his head, hiding the faint curve of a smile that tugged at his lips.
The king's voice sharpened. " Do not test me, boy. You may wear a crown one day, but until then, you are still my son. You will walk this path with honor. Not for yourself alone, but for Irele."
Silence pressed between them, heavy with unspoken things.
" I hear your warning." The prince answered at last. " I will not let pleasure blind me to duty. But"—he paused, his smirk tugging wider—" if the empire places before me both a crown and a man worth keeping, who says I cannot claim them both? "
The queen hid a chuckle behind her hand, though her eyes betrayed both pride and worry.
The king's scowl deepened. " Your tongue will one day cut you deeper than any sword, boy. See that it does not."
The prince bowed, hiding the mischievous gleam in his eyes. "I will remember, Baba. "
At last, the king stepped closer, resting a hand — heavy, calloused, and sure — on his son's shoulder. "Remember this. A throne is not won by desire, but by discipline. And if you must carve your way through blood, do it with your head held high."
The queen's hand brushed the prince's cheek, gentling what the king's words had hardened.
"You will not fail me, my son. " she said, her voice cool, like a blade across stone. "You were not born for weakness. You were born to rule. And if another prince stands in your way—" she paused, her eyes narrowing—"cut him down."
The prince bowed his head. "Yes, Mother."
But in his heart, a question stirred: ' And what if power was never enough? What if the throne demanded more than blood? '
The prince lifted his gaze to both of them. The mischief faded, replaced by the steady calm of a warrior ready to face whatever came. The oil lamp flickered, shadows dancing upon the ancestral mask.
>
>
No one came to cheer when he mounted his horse. No children lined the streets with songs. Only soldiers saluted as the great gates opened, their eyes sharp, measuring.
He rode out of Irele with little disguise, his royal beads stripped, his face uncovered. To hide was cowardice, and cowardice was death. But then, he knew; outside the walls, no one knew what he looked like.
- Or so he thought.
>
The prince rode alone. No guards, no servants— only the steady beat of his horse's hooves. The forest stretched wide and dark, too quiet, as if it was watching him.
He held the reins tighter, eyes shifting left and right. Danger was the first companion of every traveler.
And it came swiftly.
> From the undergrowth, eyes tracked him, hungry and merciless. Bandits. They had been waiting for prey, and a lone rider in fine leather was more than they had dared hope for. One crouched low, bow drawn, arrow notched.
A whistle cut through the trees.
The horse jerked as arrows hissed past, stabbing into the dirt at his side. From the shadows, six men stepped out— faces covered, machetes glinting.
They spread out around him, grinning like hunters who had already won.
But the prince did not flinch.
The bandits closed in. One spat on the ground, machete flashing.
" Drop the horse, boy. Leave your goods, and maybe we let you crawl away."
The prince sat tall in the saddle, eyes cold.
" You mistake me for a merchant. I don't crawl. Also, you should have brought more men. " he said, his voice calm.
He drew his sword—broad, heavy, the kind meant not for show but for killing.
The forest went still- holding its breath.
The bandits rushed him. Steel met steel. The air rang with the clash of blades, the grunts of men fighting for survival. The prince movements were precise, cold, efficient. He cut one down, then another, his blade flashing in the dim forest light. Blood stained the ground, and the rest fled back into the shadows, leaving only silence behind.
Breathing hard- yet smiling at the little thrill, he wiped the blade on a fallen leaf and sheathed it. His horse pawed the ground, restless, but he only whispered, "Six months…"
His hand brushed against a carved wooden pendant hanging from his neck— it felt warm in his palm.- the only gift from a father who trusted his strength, but never his choices.
…and the game begins.
--
But deep in the trees, unseen, another pair of eyes watched him ride away- gaze that will not forget the prince of Irele.
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