In the time before the kingdoms clashed, there were many who rose and fell under the weight of ambition and fate. But this story, like so many others, is not just the tale of kings and queens, but of those whose names were written by the hands of time. I, Adazee, watched from afar as Queen Nosaze ascended, her kingdom shaken by the death of her father and the tremors of a world on the edge of war. My eyes saw it all, and I will tell you what I witnessed.

In the Golden Age, on the western coast of Africa, where lush forests gave way to expansive savannas, a kingdom of unparalleled might thrived. The Benin Kingdom, renowned for its intricate bronze sculptures, vibrant marketplaces, and warriors whose iron-forged weapons were the envy of the region, was ruled by a man whose ambition knew no bounds—King Akhigbe. His realm flourished under his stern leadership, its lands teeming with resources and its people skilled in both craft and combat. Yet, King Akhigbe desired more than prosperity; he yearned for dominance.

Driven by a hunger to make his kingdom feared and his name immortal, Akhigbe waged unrelenting campaigns against neighboring realms. Kingdom after kingdom fell to his forces, their rulers forced to kneel or perish. But his victories came at a heavy price. In their desperation, his enemies turned their wrath toward the king's lineage, seeking to destroy what they could not conquer.

One fateful night, vengeance swept through the kingdom. Shadows slithered past stone walls, and by dawn, four of King Akhigbe's five sons lay lifeless alongside their families. Only the youngest, Prince Akenzua, escaped the massacre, fleeing into the night with his wife and children clutched close.

The loss hollowed Akhigbe. The once-mighty king, whose laughter had once filled banquet halls, now sat alone in the dim light of his chamber, his crown forgotten on the cold stone. Servants whispered as they passed, their trays of untouched meals stacking by the door.

Amidst this fracture, Akenzua took the throne. He walked among his people, his hands open and voice steady, forging fragile alliances with cautious neighbors. Yet, even as Benin began to heal under his rule, old scars festered beneath the surface, and the minor kingdoms remained bound by wary oaths.

At thirteen, Prince Nehikhare listened closely when his grandfather spoke. His birthmark, a dark twist from cheek to neck, earned him wary glances and hushed reverence. His mother called him Nehizena, a name wrapped in love and pride, yet it was Akhigbe's words that curled like smoke in his mind. As Nehikhare traced the cold grooves of old bloodstains in the palace stone, the old king murmured tales of betrayal and retribution—"Never forget, never forgive."