The Lost king

The sky was gray with the promise of fire.

The clouds did not move. They brooded above the hills like ancient gods, too weary to weep and too wise to bless what was to come. In the valley below, a thousand soldiers prepared for war—not just any battle, but the final one.

At the heart of the rebel camp, a tent made of elephant hide and blood-stitched canvas stood still. Lanterns flickered within. Men with names carved in both story and sorrow gathered.

Inside, Yemi stood at the head of a round war table. Not as a boy chasing his father's ghost. Not as a hot-headed rebel fueled by anger. But as a general now—tempered by loss, burned by betrayal, and sharpened by necessity.

His fingers rested on the old carved map of the Five Kingdoms. Rivers marked in faded blue ink. Hills etched in knife-scratched grooves. Burn marks where battles had been won—and lost.

Surrounding him were warriors that had once been strangers.

Now they were family.

---

I. The Table of War

Adeola stood to his right—quiet, focused, the fire in his eyes low but steady. His armor bore the crest of Ayo now, a mantle he hadn't asked for but had earned in blood. Behind him, Owulo captains stood in silence, nodding only when needed.

To the left, Bayo leaned against a wooden pillar, arms crossed. His Ibadi colors were darker, his gaze sharp. The tension between him and others had long since settled into something colder than peace—respect born from shared wounds.

Moremi paced near the tent flap, her eyes distant but dangerous. Akinmule stood behind her, hands behind his back, no longer a traitor in exile—but a soldier of purpose.

Yemi looked up from the map. His voice, when it came, was calm. No theatrics. No desperation.

Just clarity.

> "We move as one… but we strike in many."

The weight of that truth fell like a stone.

> "Adeola," he continued, tracing the center of the map with his forefinger. "You take the heart. The spine of this assault is yours. You'll lead the Ayo warriors. The Owulo flanks fall under your banner. The main gates will fall by your fire."

Adeola nodded. No questions. No pride. Just readiness.

> "Bayo," Yemi turned to the left side of the table. "You command the Ibadi legions. Take the west wall. No mercy. Push through and hold. If they retreat, you do not give chase. We break the structure—not lose ourselves in chaos."

Bayo uncrossed his arms. His voice was low. "Understood."

> "Moremi," Yemi's voice softened—not with weakness, but with care. "You and Akinmule… take the eastern corridor. The ruins of Irebi."

The silence was heavier now.

Moremi's hands clenched.

Yemi didn't look away.

> "That's where he'll be."

No one needed to speak his name. Adebayo.

The man who had butchered Wale.

The man who had burned Irebi.

The man who waited for revenge—or redemption—to find him.

Akinmule's jaw tensed, but he said nothing.

Moremi gave a slow nod, her expression unreadable.

> "We'll finish it," she said.

---

II. What Wasn't Said

The wind outside howled.

Inside, the tent remained silent.

There were no cheers. No war cries. No fist-pounding or chest-thumping.

Only nods.

That kind of silence that came when people had already said their goodbyes in their hearts.

Yemi stepped away from the table.

He looked at each of them—not just as warriors, but as pieces of a greater story. All of them broken. All of them hardened. And yet still standing.

> "Many of us have already died," he said quietly. "We just haven't stopped breathing."

No one moved.

> "But today… we earn that breath. For those who can't. For what was taken."

> "For Wale."

"For Chief Alade."

"For the nameless ones we failed."

He placed a hand on the hilt of his father's sword.

A sword he once believed was cursed.

Now it was purpose.

> "Today, we fight not just for vengeance… but for peace. And peace must be bought in full."

---

III. Parting Glances

One by one, the commanders began to leave.

Adeola gave Yemi a nod before stepping out into the cold air. His men followed like shadows.

Bayo paused, his eyes meeting Yemi's. There was something in his gaze—regret, perhaps. But also trust.

> "No matter what," Bayo said, "we finish it."

Yemi nodded.

When Moremi passed, she didn't speak. But she touched his shoulder—lightly. A gesture. A promise.

Akinmule lingered last. His voice was barely above a whisper.

> "She may not forgive me. But I won't fail her."

> "Don't," Yemi replied. "Not today."

And then, they were gone.

---

IV. Alone With the Map

Yemi remained, standing before the table long after the tent had emptied.

He stared at the center of the map.

A red stone marked the rebel camp. A black stone marked Ojora's fortress.

Between them… nothing but scars.

He closed his eyes.

And he heard his father's voice—stern, tired, but proud.

> "Leadership is not loud, son. It is lonely. And if you are lucky, it is worth it."

He opened his eyes again.

And without another word, he stepped into the waiting dawn.