The night sky hung heavy with storm clouds as the ancient bells of Olúmò Rock tolled, their echoes rolling across the land like a call to war. Abeokuta had seen many battles, but tonight, its rulers and warriors gathered for a war unlike any other—a reckoning against the red werewolves and their queen, Iyaláyà.
In the Great Hall of the Ọba, the air was thick with tension.
Seated on the high throne was Ọba Adéwálé, the Lion of Egba, draped in gold and crimson robes. To his left and right sat powerful chiefs and kings from distant lands, their faces carved from stone. The council of elders whispered among themselves, some fearful, others eager for vengeance.
At the center of the hall stood Ajoke, Akintola, and Owuye—worn from battle, yet unbroken. Behind them, Agbaje's children stood tall, their eyes glowing faintly with the unchained power of their bloodline.
The door swung open, and the last arrivals entered.
Balógun Adégbòró, the war general, flanked by his elite hunters, their weapons gleaming with silver.
Ifá priests, their white robes flowing, holding staffs inscribed with ancient symbols.
Sango worshippers, their presence crackling with the unseen force of lightning.
And lastly, the Keepers of the Moonlight, the silent guardians who had watched over the werewolf prophecy for centuries.
Ọba Adéwálé raised his hand, commanding silence. His deep voice carried across the room like thunder.
"The land bleeds. The spirits cry. The time for judgment is upon us."
Owuye stepped forward, his voice steady. "The red werewolves have tormented this land for too long. They killed our people, corrupted our traditions, and fed on the innocent. But now, their end is near."
A murmur spread through the hall. The chiefs nodded in agreement, but some glanced at Ajoke, who stood motionless.
Chief Ọdẹwálé, an elder with piercing eyes, turned toward her. "And what of her? The blood of her family is stained with treachery."
Ajoke lifted her chin. She had spent years dismantling Sade's allies, reclaiming her father's company, and standing against the red werewolves—but justice did not forget.
Ọba Adéwálé's gaze did not waver. "Ajoke, daughter of Ajumobi, what do you say for yourself?"
For the first time, she hesitated. Then, with a steady voice, she spoke.
"I will not beg for mercy. I have done what I must to set things right. But if justice demands my punishment, so be it."
The priests exchanged glances. "Justice is not only for the dead, but for the living," one of them intoned.
Ọba Adéwálé nodded solemnly. "Then justice you shall have. Ajoke, for your role in past betrayals, you are sentenced to the Prison of Orunmila—a magical prison where only truth can set you free. There, your soul will face judgment, not from men, but from the spirits themselves."
Gasps filled the hall. The Prison of Orunmila was no ordinary dungeon. It was an ethereal prison, a place where the guilty relived their sins until they found redemption—or perished in the torment of their own memories.
Ajoke did not resist. She merely closed her eyes and whispered, "Let it be done."
But the night was not yet over.
A loud crash shook the earth.
The warriors turned, gripping their weapons. The sky outside was shifting—darkening—twisting.
A messenger ran in, panting. "The Forsaken Mountain… it is awakening!"
Owuye's expression hardened. "She's making her final move."
Ọba Adéwálé rose to his feet. "Then we make ours. We end this war—tonight."
A great horn was blown. Drums thundered. The warriors of Abeokuta, the chiefs, the hunters, and the supernatural forces—each pledged to one cause—marched toward the Forsaken Mountain.
The battle for justice had begun.
The History of the Prison of Orunmila
Before Abeokuta was founded, before the kingdoms of men rose in power, the gods walked freely among mortals. It was a time when truth and deception waged an eternal war, and the spirits judged all who walked the earth.
In those days, Orunmila, the deity of wisdom and destiny, created a sacred prison—not of stone, but of time itself. This prison was not meant for the common sinner, nor for the wicked who deserved death. Instead, it was built for those who had strayed from justice, those whose destinies had been twisted by their own hands.
Inside this prison, the guilty were not chained, nor beaten, nor tortured. Instead, they were trapped in a realm where their own past followed them like a shadow. Every lie, every betrayal, every blood-stained moment—relived, over and over again, until the soul either broke… or found redemption.
Many had entered. Few had returned.
A Forgotten King's Fate
One of the first to be cast into the prison was Ọba Adégun, a king who had been loved by his people but had betrayed the gods for power. When he was sent into the Prison of Orunmila, he swore he would survive. He lasted seven days before his own sins consumed him, and his name was erased from history.
The world moved on, but the prison remained. Hidden in the space between reality and the divine, it waited for those whom fate could not judge with mortal laws.
Return to the Present
Ajoke felt the shift before she saw it. One moment, she stood in the Great Hall. The next, the world around her cracked like broken glass.
The walls faded, turning into endless darkness. Then—a familiar place formed around her.
She was back at Chief Ajumobi's estate.
The grand house stood before her, untouched by time. The same house where she had watched her father fall, the same halls where she had unknowingly played a role in her family's destruction.
But something was wrong.
She was not alone.
A figure stepped forward from the shadows—a man she had not seen in years. Chief Ajumobi himself.
Ajoke's breath caught. "This… this isn't real."
But her father smiled, his eyes sharp with knowing.
"Welcome home, Ajoke," he said. "Shall we begin?"
The Prison of Orunmila had taken hold. And Ajoke's trial had begun.