The sun bled into the smoky sky above Ìlú Aláyé, painting the crumbling capital of the 8th Kingdom in shades of fire and despair. Screams echoed across the palace courtyards. Ash drifted like snow, settling on broken spears and fallen warriors. The once-golden banners bearing the crest of the Leopard King hung tattered, darkened with blood.
Akọgun Òdẹ́yẹ stood at the center of the throne hall, breathing heavily. He was thirteen. His body was bruised, cut, his ceremonial robes torn. He clutched a spear far too large for him, its iron tip cracked. Around him lay the corpses of the palace guard—warriors he had grown up calling uncles, teachers, protectors. Dead. All of them.
He couldn't stop shaking.
"Get up!" The voice of Ọba Adérígbè, his father—the Leopard King—cracked through the chamber. The king knelt near the throne, one leg broken, blood running from a wound in his side. But his voice held the fire of battle. "You are my son. A lion cub never cowers."
Akọgun forced his legs to move. He stood straighter.
Outside, the sound of drumming intensified—the war drums of invading soldiers from the 3rd and 5th Kingdoms. A betrayal. A coordinated assault. No warning.
"Where is your brother?" Adérígbè asked.
"Dead," Akọgun whispered. "He fell in the western wing with the shadowguards."
The king closed his eyes for a moment. When he opened them, they were hard as flint. "Then you carry the legacy alone."
The heavy doors burst open. A tall figure in black stepped through, flanked by three warriors clad in dark masks. The attacker's robes bore the sigil of the 3rd Kingdom—the Crocodile Circle. He drew his blade slowly, savoring the moment.
"Leopard King," the man said. "It's time."
Adérígbè struggled to his feet and looked at Akọgun. "Listen to me. You must survive. Go to the Silent Hills. Find the Akọgbẹ̀. Swear the warrior's vow. Learn the path of Òkàn. Take back our home."
Akọgun's eyes brimmed with tears. "B-but—"
"No!" The king shouted, grabbing Akọgun's shoulder. "If you die here, our kingdom dies. If you live, then someday... someday you will bury them all."
The warrior in black moved forward.
Adérígbè turned to face him, raising his bloodied sword. "Go!"
Akọgun ran.
---
The escape tunnel beneath the palace was narrow and dark, lit only by soul-lanterns humming with faint energy. Akọgun stumbled through the dust, sobbing quietly. The ground shook as more explosions rocked the city. Cries of battle and collapsing stone haunted his steps.
At the end of the passage, he emerged into the lower district, now a field of ruin. Smoke choked the air. Families ran. Soldiers slaughtered anyone in their path. Akọgun pulled his hood low and slipped through the chaos.
He saw a girl—a child, no older than eight—clutching her mother's body. A soldier raised his blade. Akọgun reacted without thinking, throwing his broken spear. The iron tip caught the man in the neck. He fell. The girl fled.
Akọgun retrieved the spear. His hands trembled.
"Kill one. Save one. That's all I can do."
He moved toward the western gates.
---
Three days passed.
Akọgun walked through the scorched wilderness alone. No food. No water. His body was weak. His mind kept replaying the fall of the palace—the moment his father ordered him to run. Coward. Or survivor?
He collapsed by a dried riverbed.
"Let me die," he whispered.
But death didn't come. Instead, a shadow moved above him.
A woman stood there. She wore tattered robes dyed with ash. Her face was marked with white chalk symbols—symbols of mourning. Her eyes glowed faintly with soul-light.
"You smell of death and legacy," she said. "Who are you, boy?"
He didn't answer.
She dropped something beside him: water. Bread.
"Eat. You'll need strength. The path ahead isn't for the dead."
She turned and walked away.
He forced himself to drink, then eat.
"Who are you?" he asked, voice cracking.
She paused. "Akọgbẹ̀," she said. "You'll meet others. If you live long enough."
Then she vanished into the mist.
Akọgun looked up at the blood-red moon.
"I will live," he said. "I swear it. And I will make them pay."