Chapter 2 Shadows in the Bloodline

The wind whispered through the courtyard of the Akun palace, rustling the palm banners draped in mourning black. Dawn's light was dim, filtered through the clouded sky. But inside the palace walls, the air was heavier than any fog.

Prince Adebayo stood at the edge of the royal garden, his arms folded behind his back. He wore no crown, no armor-only a plain royal tunic still stained at the sleeve from the battlefield. The stillness mocked him. The silence did not belong to a kingdom at peace but to one holding its breath.

Behind him, footsteps approached. A gentle, familiar tread.

"My son," Queen Akerele said softly.

He turned, his eyes softening. She had aged, but there was grace in her lines, a strength that had not diminished.

"Mother," he said. "I fear I no longer understand this place."

"The kingdom we once knew," she replied, "died before your father did."

She stepped closer and took his hand. Her voice dropped. "There is something you must know. The kingmaker was alone with Kabiyesi for hours the night he passed. No one but the Ogboni were permitted near."

Adebayo's jaw clenched. "He claimed it was Kabiyesi's decree. That we must all prove ourselves equal."

Queen Akerele looked up into his eyes. "Does that sound like your father? The same man who wept silently the day he made you crown prince? Who made you vow never to abandon your brothers?"

Adebayo shook his head slowly. "It does not."

From the distance, a bell rang-a signal to the court that the day's meeting was about to begin.

In the great hall of Akun, the princes gathered. It was the first time since their father's death that all five sons stood in one room.

Prince Adeola, the second son, sat calmly at the far end, fingers laced over a leather-bound psalm book. His posture humble, his eyes lowered, but aware of everything. He was a man of peace, of study and depth, and his silence always spoke more than others' noise.

Beside him leaned Adesola, the fourth son. He smirked, quoting from the Psalms in a twisting tongue: "Even the stones shall cry out, if the chosen are silent. Perhaps the Lord has chosen someone new, eh brother?"

Adebayo offered no reply.

Adesola chuckled and leaned back, eyes sharp. Greedy. Too clever for his age.

Prince Adelabu, the third son, entered next. He looked like he had only just woken. His robe was mismatched, but his eyes were alert. He said nothing, gave a nod to no one, and leaned lazily against a carved pillar.

"Let us finish this so I may return to the lake," he muttered. "Dreams make more sense than men."

Adeoye, the youngest prince, arrived last. He bowed deeply, respectfully, to Adebayo before speaking.

"Brother," he said, "I do not care what they call us now. You will always be my elder, and I will follow you through fire."

Adebayo gripped his shoulder. "And I will not let that fire consume you."

The royal steward entered then and handed a sealed scroll to Adebayo. The prince opened it, frowning.

"An official summons from the Ogboni Council," he said. "They wish for us to begin preparations immediately. The countdown has begun."

Meanwhile, in the Queen's wing, Queen Morounkeji stood at the center of a quiet room, fingers gripping her shawl as the Oloyes-the chiefs of Akun-entered beside the high Ogboni.

"The council mourns your loss, my Queen," one of them said. "But we must act now to preserve peace."

She nodded. "Peace through war, then?"

The Ogboni elder smiled politely. "Through wisdom. Through structure. The princes must depart within eleven days. It is what the five kingdoms demand."

"Or else they will descend upon us," Queen Akerele said, stepping in. "This is no quest. It is a culling."

The kingmaker looked at her. "We only fulfill the words of Kabiyesi."

Her eyes narrowed. "The words you heard, and no one else."

The room chilled. The Oloyes exchanged glances, uncertain.

Queen Morounkeji stepped forward. "And if the boys do not return? What then?"

"Then Akun will fall," the kingmaker said flatly. "And the five kingdoms will take what remains."

There was a long silence. The Ogboni left without another word.

After they left, Queen Akerele and Queen Morounkeji sat in the hush, a silence deepened by years of rivalry, grief, and shared fear. Neither trusted the Ogboni. Long ago, Kabiyesi had hinted to Queen Akerele of his doubts-how the kingmaker had grown too powerful. Too independent. And yet now, that very man dictated the fate of their sons.

That evening, Princess Adepeju walked alone through the gallery of kings, where the portraits of past rulers stared down with painted eyes. She stopped before her father's likeness-a grand canvas recently finished, his hand resting on the hilt of his sword, his crown glinting gold.

She studied his face, then lowered her eyes. In her hand, she held a folded letter-one she had found tucked beneath a stack of psalms in his study. Sealed in wax with his personal crest. It was not meant for the Ogboni.

She had read it once. Then again. And again.

It spoke of doubt. Of regret. Of a final will to protect his firstborn, and the quiet fear that those closest to him would rewrite his legacy.

She had told no one. Not even her mother.

The door creaked open behind her.

Adeoye entered, his steps careful.

"Peju," he said softly.

She turned, tucking the letter away. "You shouldn't be out here."

"Neither should you. But something is wrong. Even the servants are whispering. They say the Ogboni knew father was dying long before anyone else."

She sighed. "They did. And they kept it hidden."

He looked at her sharply. "Do you think... he was poisoned?"

"I don't know," she whispered. "But I think Father knew his end was coming. And I think he didn't trust those around him to carry out his true wishes."

The wind howled through the open corridor. A candle flickered out.

Adepeju looked at her brother. "We must be careful. The war outside may be nothing compared to what waits inside these walls."

At the edge of the palace grounds, in the chamber of iron pillars where the Ogboni gathered, the high kingmaker sat surrounded by flame.

He stared into the fire.

"They suspect."

A younger Ogboni leaned forward. "Shall we remove the girl?"

"No," the kingmaker said. "She is a symbol. And symbols must not bleed unless the people are ready to drink it."

The flames hissed. Shadows danced.

"Keep your eye on Adebayo. He is stronger than we thought. And if he uncovers what we've done..."

The chamber fell to silence.

The kingmaker raised a finger. "Prepare the seals. We will bless the weapons for the journey. And ensure that only two return. No more."

Behind the stillness was a deeper layer-one the kingmaker knew well. Kabiyesi had once warned him, long ago, that power was a chain, not a crown. Yet he had thrown that wisdom aside. Now, he wore no crown, but held chains in both hands-chains he planned to tighten.

Back in the royal hall, Adebayo stood alone by the throne. He placed his hand on its armrest-not in ownership, but in remembrance.

"You left me without answers," he whispered. "But I will find them. I will protect them. Even if the crown was never meant for me."

He looked up.

The lion crest of Akun stared back.

And in that moment, Adebayo knew the battle had already begun.