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 ??pá à?? (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 Aj?? N’pò, my shadow twins. If you can survive against them… I’ll let you live.”

  Gethii’s pulse quickened. The Aj?? N’pò, the twin bodyguards of the throne—rumors claimed they were raised from the sacred groves of ìj??bú-?de.

  “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.

  Gethii settled into a combat stance, the sword feeling balanced in his hand. He focused, channeling the ase he usually reserved for powerful strikes into a more fluid, defensive posture. The two black-cloaked figures mirrored his stance, their movements unnervingly fluid and quick.

  The first bodyguard lunged, a blur of motion. Gethii parried, the force of the blow jarring his arm. He countered with a projectile air pressure strike, a focused burst of displaced air that battered his opponent, disrupting his follow-through. The bodyguard staggered but recovered with inhuman speed, twisting away from a subsequent thrust.

  The second bodyguard attacked from the side, a whirlwind of steel. Gethii spun, deflecting the strike and using the momentum to launch a sweeping arc of his own. He strengthened his strike, feeling the power surge through him, the air around the blade shimmering with contained force. The bodyguard blocked, and the blow connected with a force that sent a shockwave through the throne room, cracking the marble floor. It was a boulder-crushing blow and would have shattered bone, but the bodyguard, impossibly, absorbed the impact and was already moving again.

  Gethii realized he was facing opponents unlike any he had encountered before. Their speed was almost supernatural, their movements too precise, too efficient. He fought with a desperate intensity, weaving a tapestry of swordplay, mixing his air pressure strikes with his augmented strength, pushing his body to its limits.

  He disengaged, creating a small distance between them. Both bodyguards pressed their attack, moving in perfect synchronization. Gethii, despite being outnumbered and fighting with a single arm, held his ground. He anticipated their strikes, parried with incredible precision, and countered with a ferocity that pushed them back.

  He saw an opening, a momentary lapse in their coordination. Gethii unleashed a barrage of blows, each strike carrying the force of a charging elephant. He disarmed one bodyguard with a well-placed parry and a follow-up strike that sent the sword spinning across the room. He then used a projectile air pressure strike to knock the other bodyguard off balance.

  Gethii pressed his advantage. He moved in for the final blow, his sword aimed at the chest of the remaining bodyguard. The bodyguard, though injured, was still incredibly fast. She tried to dodge, but Gethii was faster.

  Victory was within his grasp.

  Suddenly, a series of sharp cracks echoed through the throne room. Gethii’s sword flew from his hand, the force of the impact sending a shockwave up his arm. He looked towards the king, who was standing, his hand outstretched, a pair of small, ornate, light-bullet handguns smoking in his grip. The King had shot his sword away.

  “I said survive them, not kill them,” the King snarled, his voice tight with barely suppressed rage. He sounded even more furious now that his bodyguards were injured. The faint hum of the light-handguns in his hands intensified.

  “Pick up the sword. You’re up against me now.”

  Gethii dropped into a kneeling position, his head bowed. Every instinct screamed at him to stay down, to not provoke the King further. With the amount of ase he had already used there was no chance he'd last more than a few seconds with the King. “I apologize, Your Majesty,” he said, forcing his voice to sound as contrite as possible. “It was a crippling blow I intended, not a killing one.”

  “Pick up the sword,” the King repeated, his voice dangerously low. The light-handguns in his hands began to glow faintly, the air around them shimmering with contained energy. Everyone in the throne room was on edge.

  “Your Majesty, you said you would let us go if I survived your guards,” Gethii said quickly, desperately trying to defuse the situation. He knew, with a chilling certainty, that he wouldn’t survive a direct confrontation with the King. “You are a man of your word, are you not?”

  The words, instead of calming the King, seemed to enrage him further. His eyes flashed with fury. He moved with a speed that Gethii couldn’t track, the light-handguns spitting bolts of pure energy.

  Gethii awoke in chains, the cold, damp stone of a dungeon floor pressing against his battered body. The pain was all-encompassing. Every bone felt as if it were not outright broken, then certainly bruised. His head throbbed, his vision blurry, and his arm ached with a deep, throbbing agony. He was a broken ruin of his former self.

  The King’s words echoed in his mind, each syllable a fresh wave of torment: “You’re right. I am a man of my word. You’ll live. And you’ll wish you were dead every day of your life.”