The air in Benin hung heavy with grief. Smoke from funeral pyres snaked into the sky, curling through the dusk like ghostly fingers. The scent of ash and loss clung to the city, and the wails of mourning women slipped through the alleys, a chorus of sorrow echoing off stone walls.
In the shadowed halls of the palace, Prince Akenzua moved with a deliberate slowness. His footsteps whispered across the cold stone floors, each step a struggle against the weight of invisible chains—the ghosts of his brothers, the unyielding sorrow of a fractured kingdom.
Behind a locked door, King Akhigbe lingered in darkness. The conqueror who once commanded armies now sat hunched by a dying hearth, his regal robes worn and frayed. Plates of untouched food piled at his door, a quiet monument to his retreat from the world. Servants moved past with lowered eyes, their whispers like leaves rustling in a graveyard.
Amid this decay, Akenzua accepted the crown. He wore it not as a mark of power but as a burden, its weight pressing down with the history of bloodshed and betrayal. Unlike his father, he did not crave domination. He craved stability.
He walked among his people, his hands open, his voice a balm to their wounds. He sat at tables with wary chieftains, trading silks and salt for fragile oaths of peace. Under his rule, Benin began to stitch its wounds closed, but beneath the surface, old scars festered.
In the quiet corners of the palace, Prince Nehikhare sat at his grandfather's feet. His young fingers, calloused from practice swords, drew patterns in the dust as Akhigbe's voice wove tales of war and retribution.
"They slaughtered my sons," Akhigbe rasped one night, his eyes twin coals burning in the dim light. "Your uncles, princes of this land, butchered like cattle. And yet... they walk free." His frail hand tightened around Nehikhare's wrist, bony fingers digging into the boy's skin. "You are my legacy now. One day, you will make them pay."
Nehikhare's eyes, sharp beneath the shadow of his birthmark, flickered with something dark and ancient. His mother, Adesuwa, called him Nehizena—a name spoken in tender moments, wrapped in pride. But to the court, he remained Nehikhare, a boy standing at the crossroads of greatness and ruin.
Akenzua, absorbed in his vision of a peaceful Benin, saw only the boy who would one day rule. He brought Nehikhare into council meetings, his young hands too small for the ceremonial staff he held. He taught him governance, believing wisdom and patience would guide him where vengeance might tempt.
But the shadows of the past do not fade in the light of good intentions. They linger, pooling in the cracks of a kingdom, waiting for the right moment to rise.