The Lost king

--ADEDAYO'S POV

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The ruins of Irebu whispered, but Adebayo did not listen.

He stood motionless beneath the broken archway of what used to be the king's judgment square—a place of music once, of council and dance, now shattered stone and ash. The court pillars had been scorched black. Only fragments of mural tiles still clung to them like stubborn ghosts.

His fingers brushed one of those tiles absently—blue and gold, the crest of Irebu, cracked through the middle.

Behind him, his men crouched low, scattered across rooftops and rubble like patient wolves. Twenty of the Ojora elite: hardened, loyal, and thirsty for the last kill.

> "No fires," he had told them earlier. "No movement until I say. This battle is not for noise. It is for silence… for ghosts."

He had chosen this place. He had waited.

And now, she was coming.

---

I. The General of Shadows

Adebayo exhaled slowly. His breath fogged faintly in the chill of morning.

He wore armor stripped of its usual silver shine—blacked with ash and blood. His curved blade rested on his thigh, unsheathed but still. Every piece of him was ready, but his face showed no tension. Only poise.

To his men, he was unshakable. A wall.

But inside, the wind was not still.

> "Moremi…"

"Daughter of the traitor general. Sister to Wale, the beloved."

He remembered Wale.

Not just the way he died—but how he lived. Loyal. Bright. Foolish. That boy had laughed with his enemies, treated rebels like equals. He called Adebayo "brother" once, even when they stood on opposite ends of justice.

And Adebayo… had cut his throat.

Not for sport. Not for cruelty.

For duty.

Or so he told himself.

---

II. A Lesson in Blood

He could still hear the words of Adekunle Ojora, years ago, when he was just a soldier bleeding in the mud.

> "Do not confuse mercy with strength," the old king had growled.

"Kill a man with doubt, and you leave a hole in the empire."

Adebayo had memorized that lesson. He carved it into his heart like scripture.

Wale had begged, yes. He had cried. Not for himself—but for his sister. For peace. For unity.

> "We can end this. Let's talk. Adebayo, you don't have to—"

But the sword answered first.

He killed not a man—but a symbol.

And when Moremi watched her brother fall, something in her broke.

That crack… was coming for him now.

---

III. The Art of Waiting

He knelt in the center of the ruined court, one knee pressed to the dust. Around him, the silent circle of death was complete—his men positioned perfectly, flanking paths, hiding above collapsed walls, within broken towers.

He had rehearsed this trap in his mind a thousand times.

> "She will come through the shrine road. She will not take the main gate. She's too clever for that."

> "She will come with him—Akinmule. The exile. The traitor general. He knows this terrain well."

> "Their grief will be heavy. Grief makes people slow."

He closed his eyes and breathed again.

In. Out.

In. Out.

Discipline over emotion.

But still… something twisted in his gut.

Not fear.

Not even guilt.

Just inevitability.

> "If she dies, the rebellion weakens. If I die… history forgets me."

And that… was the cruelest fate of all.

---

IV. Memory of Fire

The first time Adebayo saw Irebi, it was ablaze.

He was younger then, just another sword in a faceless army. The Ojora empire had ordered the cleansing of border villages—strategic, brutal, merciless. He remembered children screaming. Elders pulled from shrines. The red glow of oil lanterns against smoke.

He had not questioned it. He fought well. He was promoted.

But that night… the flames of Irebi etched themselves into his dreams. He remembered one girl—kneeling over a fallen brother, eyes red, cheeks blackened with soot and sorrow.

It was Moremi.

He didn't know her name then.

Now he knew too much.

---

V. The Blade Remembers

He ran his thumb along the edge of his sword.

It had Wale's blood on it once. Washed clean, but never forgotten. Swords, like spirits, remembered.

> "When you take a life," Bankode once said, "it binds you to theirs. Their fate… becomes yours."

Adebayo had mocked the priest then. Old words, old curses.

But now?

He looked at the red sun rising over the hills beyond Irebi.

It looked like an eye.

Watching.

Waiting.

---

VI. The Lion Rises

One of his men—Toru, his fastest scout—slipped behind him, breath shallow.

> "Movement on the eastern path," he whispered. "Two riders. Five scouts. Banner of Ayo."

Adebayo did not move.

> "Let them in," he said. "Hold your positions. No one strikes until I give the sign."

Toru vanished again into dust.

He rose slowly.

The earth shifted under his boots. His heartbeat did not quicken. He felt nothing—no rage, no sorrow.

Just readiness.

He would greet her. Blade to blade. Memory against memory.

And if she was better?

If Wale had taught her well…?

Then perhaps his death would be the penance.

But if not…

Then the empire would be satisfied.

---

VII. Steel of Legacy

He stood atop the crumbled dais, watching the road as it sloped into view. Dust. Hooves. Shadowed figures.

Akinmule led them. Grim. Steady. Still strong.

And beside him, on foot now… Moremi.

She walked as if the weight of ten years rested on her back. Her eyes were not teary. They were glass. Hardened. Forged.

Adebayo's hand dropped to his sword.

This was not personal anymore.

This was the storm meeting the mountain.

> "Let her come," he whispered once more. "Let her bring her

blade and her vengeance. I will break both."