14th January, 1895
The night carried a stillness that did not belong.
The day that changes everything mankind as ever knows.
It pressed gently against the red earth, against the mud walls and carved wooden doors, against the sleeping compounds of the village as though something unseen had laid a quiet hand upon the world and commanded it to wait.
In the courtyard of his father's house, beneath the shadow of an ancient iroko tree, Adéọlá lay awake.
His name had been given to him with ceremony.
The crown is wealth.
A name that was not merely spoken—but carried.
Even as a child, he had understood that it was not his alone. It belonged to lineage, to blood, to expectation. To something older than him.
Tonight, it felt heavier than ever.
He turned on his mat, eyes tracing the familiar outline of the ceiling beams. The faint glow of a dying lantern flickered in the corner, casting long shadows that shifted like restless spirits.
Then he smelled it.
Smoke.
Not the soft, comforting scent of evening fires coming from cooking or grilling.
This was sharper.
Bitter.
Wrong.
Adéọlá sat up slowly, his heartbeat beginning to quicken.
From beyond the walls came a sound—
A scream, wails and frequent burst of gunshots.
It cut through the silence with terrifying clarity.
His breath caught.
Another followed.
Then many more.
"Adéọlá!"
His mother's voice.
It was not the voice of a woman calling her child.
It was the voice of someone already standing at the edge of loss.
"Get up!"
The door shattered inward.
Wood splintered under the force of the impact as armed men stormed into the room. Their presence was immediate and overwhelming—boots, firelight, metal.
Foreign.
Their skin pale beneath the dancing flames, their voices sharp and commanding in a language that felt jagged against the ears but oldly familiariliar.
Adéọlá did not understand their words at least what they were saying is completely different from what the Nun at the cathedral says.
But he understood death.
His father stepped forward.
Even in that moment, he stood tall wrapped in dignity, in authority, in something that could not be stripped by fear.
A crown without a throne was still a crown. Earlier he was forced to cease his domain to the invaders, a stain on his regality, but authority still emanates from him.
"You will not—"
The gunshot cut him off.
The sound was deafening.
Adéọlá's world fractured, he watched his strict father drop dead faster than the goat they killed during festivals.
His father's body jerked, then fell, the weight of him striking the ground with a finality that echoed louder than the shot itself.
For a moment, there was no sound.
No breath.
No thought.
Only the image.
Then everything returned at once.
"Run!"
His mother seized him, her hands trembling as she pushed him toward the back exit.
Her eyes met his.
And in them, he saw it.
Not hope.
Not fear.
But acceptance.
"The crown must live," she whispered.
Then she shoved him forward blocking the entrance with shelves.
Adéọlá stumbled into the night, disoriented and at dismay.
The village was burning.
Flames consumed the thatched roofs, climbing hungrily into the sky as though trying to swallow the stars themselves. The air was thick with smoke, with ash, with the cries of people who had not been given the chance to escape.
He ran.
Past familiar homes that were no longer homes.
Past faces he knew, now twisted in terror.
He did not stop.
He could not.
Behind him, the sound of pursuit came quickly.
"They're escaping!"
A gunshot rang out.
Adéọlá felt it before he understood it.
A violent force slammed into his left shoulder, spinning him sideways as pain exploded through his body.
He hit the ground hard, the breath knocked from his lungs.
For a moment, the world went white.
Then red.
A strangled cry tore from his throat as sensation flooded back—burning, tearing, unbearable.
His shoulder now with holes.
Blood spread rapidly across his cloth, warm and slick.
"Get up—!"
The voice in his head was not his own.
It was memory.
His father.
Adéọlá gritted his teeth.
With shaking hands, he forced himself upright.
His arm hung uselessly at his side, every movement sending waves of agony through him.
But still—
He ran with all his strength.
The forest swallowed him.
Branches lashed against his face and body as he pushed through the dense undergrowth, his vision blurring with tears he refused to let fall.
But here—
Here, he knew the land.
Even in the dark.
Even through pain.
He had followed hunters through these paths before, trailing behind the older men as they tracked antelope and wild boar. He knew where the roots twisted beneath the soil, where the ground dipped, where the trees grew close enough to conceal a man.
His uncle's voice echoed faintly in his mind.
"Step where I step, Adéọlá. The forest is a friend—until you forget it can also eat you."
He veered left instinctively, ducking beneath a low branch just as another shot rang out behind him.
The bullet tore through leaves where his head had been moments before.
Too close.
Too close.
He pushed forward, choosing narrower paths, forcing his pursuers into uneven terrain where their numbers worked against them.
For a moment—
Just a moment—
He gained distance.
But the mountain loomed ahead.
Dark.
Silent.
Watching.
Adéọlá's breath hitched.
Even as a child, he had known this place.
Not by experience.
But by warning.
"Never go near the mountain," his uncle had said, his usual easy tone replaced with something firm.
"There are things there that do not fear men."
Adéọlá had laughed then thinking it was his uncle casual warning as he always does thinking it was his uncle usual .
He was not laughing now.
Behind him, the voices grew sharper.
"He's heading up!"
"Cut him off!"
His options vanished.
Forward—
Or death.
He chose forward.
The ground began to rise beneath his feet as he started the climb, his strength draining with every step. Blood loss made the world tilt dangerously, shadows creeping into the edges of his vision.
His foot slipped.
He crashed hard against the rocks, a cry escaping him before he could stop it.
Pain flared violently from his shoulder.
For a moment, he could not move.
Could not think.
This was where it would end.
A prince dying in the dirt like prey.
"No…"
The word came out broken.
He lifted his head, heavy as if he had drunk all night.
And saw it.
A narrow opening carved into the mountainside.
A cave.
Half-hidden.
Waiting.
With the last of his strength, Adéọlá dragged himself toward it, each movement slow, desperate, fueled by nothing but refusal to die.
Another shot rang out.
Stone shattered beside him.
But he reached it.
Slipping inside just as darkness swallowed him whole.
The air within was cold.
Still.
Adéọlá collapsed against the inner wall, his breath coming in ragged gasps as he clutched his bleeding shoulder.
Outside, the voices arrived.
"He's here."
"Search the area."
Footsteps echoed against stone.
Closer.
Closer.
Adéọlá squeezed his eyes shut.
If this was where his story ended—
Then let it end quietly or he will end it himself.
A sound interrupted the silence.
Low.
Deep.
Not human.
The men outside hesitated.
"What was that?"
Another sound followed.
A growl.
It rolled through the mountain like distant thunder, heavy with hunger.
Adéọlá's eyes opened slowly.
Even in his state, he understood.
They were no longer the hunters.
They had become the hunted.
The first scream came suddenly.
Sharp.
Cut short.
Gunfire erupted in panic.
Shouts overlapped, frantic and disordered.
Then—
Movement.
Fast.
Violent.
Unseen.
Another scream.
Then another.
Until one by one, the voices disappeared into the night, swallowed by something far older than their weapons, far more at home in the dark.
Silence returned.
Complete.
Unforgiving.
Adéọlá did not move.
Could not.
His body trembled uncontrollably as the last of his strength drained away or rather the sickening crunch of bones he is hearing.
He was alive.
But everything else—
Gone.
His father.
His mother.
His home.
Ashes.
A faint memory surfaced.
A voice.
Old.
Measured.
The village diviner.
It had been during a festival, beneath the same iroko tree.
She had taken his hand, her fingers cold despite the heat of the day.
"You will walk through fire, child of the crown," she had said.
"You will be hunted, broken, and cast into darkness."
His breathing slowed.
The cave seemed to listen.
"If you survive the trials that seek to end you—
fortune will follow you like a shadow that never leaves."
Another memory followed.
His father.
Standing tall in the courtyard, watching him train.
Silent.
But present.
Approval never spoken—only shown.
Then—
His mother.
Her laughter soft, her hands gentle as she adjusted his clothing before ceremonies, always saying, "A crown is not worn on the head alone."
And—
His uncle.
Blade in hand, circling him.
"Again," he had said, striking his guard aside.
"A prince who cannot fight is a crown waiting to be stolen."
And finally—
Her.
A girl at the edge of the courtyard, pretending not to watch as he trained. The way she smiled when he caught her looking. The way she turned away too quickly.
A life.
Simple.
Unfinished.
Adéọlá exhaled slowly, the weight of it all settling over him like the ashes of his burning home.
Gone.
All of it.
Ahead of him, deeper within the cave, darkness shifted.
Not with movement.
But with presence.
Something was there.
Waiting.
Adéọlá lifted his head.
There was nothing left for him outside.
No life to return to.
No crown to inherit.
Only loss or possibly death.
Slowly, painfully, he pushed himself to his feet.
His wounded shoulder throbbed violently, but he ignored it.
One step.
Then another.
Into the darkness.
The ground beneath him trembled.
A low rumble followed.
He froze.
Too late.
The earth gave way.
In that final instant before he fell—
All those memories flashed once more.
Not as pain.
But as something distant.
Something already lost.
Adéọlá fell.
The world vanished.
Darkness consumed him entirely as he plunged into the depths below, the last traces of light disappearing above.
The cold air rushed past him, carrying with it something strange—
Something vast.
Something ancient.
And in that final moment before consciousness slipped away—
Adéọlá felt it.
Not death.
Not fear.
But recognition.
As though the darkness itself had been waiting.
For the one who carried the crown.
Then everything went still.