The Lost king

MOREMI'S POV

The wind whispered through the broken bones of Irebu.

Moremi slowed her horse as the village rose before her, not with life—but with memory. The walls were not walls anymore. They were skeletons. The roofs had collapsed into their own ash. Huts sagged like kneeling corpses, blackened at the edges, some eaten away by creeping vines. The village had been left to die… but it had not been buried.

Behind her, six rebel scouts followed silently, their movements cautious, blades sheathed but ready. Akinmule walked beside her, his long frame quiet, hands resting calmly by his sides, his eyes sweeping the ruins with the dull ache of familiarity.

> "Irebu…" she murmured, the name bitter and sacred on her tongue.

Akinmule said nothing.

She didn't blame him.

He once helped destroy this place.

---

I. A Land of Ghosts

The road curved past the well, the one that had served the village for generations. It was dry now. The rope frayed. The bucket rotted. Moss grew along the stones like a scar.

She passed the old tailor's hut—walls caved in. Broken loom and faded cloth covered in dust. The bakery where she once stole bread with Wale. The woman who owned it had chased them down the alley with a sandal and a curse. Now the windows were shattered. A rat scurried inside, dragging a blackened crust.

> "Everything's smaller," she whispered.

Not because the buildings had shrunk. But because she had grown—and the memories with them.

---

II. The Mango Tree

She stopped at the village square.

There it stood: the mango tree. Bent but alive. Its bark was still thick with ridges, but its branches were fewer now, thin and reaching. No fruit.

> "There," she pointed. "That branch—Wale dared me to climb it when I was five. I told him I was brave enough. He laughed."

She smiled faintly.

> "I climbed. Fell. Knocked a tooth out."

> "He catch you?" Akinmule asked, voice quiet.

> "Of course," she said. "Always did."

She dismounted. Let her fingers graze the bark. There was still a groove there from when she'd cut her name into it with a rock.

Just an "M".

She didn't know why she expected it to be gone.

---

III. The Shrine of the Ancestors

The path narrowed near the eastern quarter. A fallen arch led to a courtyard where a single shrine still stood. It was cracked but unbroken. Four stone pillars supported a flat slab of carved obsidian, darkened by fire but still sacred.

Moremi stepped toward it. The others stayed back.

This was her place.

Here, she had watched her father pour libations. Here, she'd seen her mother kneel in prayer when war crept near. Here, Wale once sat alone after losing a battle—not with swords, but with spirit.

He had cried quietly then. Not because he lost. But because people died because of him.

> "They listen, you know," she said aloud. "Even now."

She knelt before the shrine and whispered an old prayer—not from any scroll, not from the priests—but one from memory.

> Let them be remembered. Let the blood be cleansed. Let the dust rise no more.

Behind her, Akinmule bowed his head. Silent.

He didn't deserve forgiveness.

But even he prayed for peace.

---

IV. The Hollow

She walked ahead, deeper into the ruined eastern ward.

Here, the homes were smaller—servants' quarters, lesser shrines, far from the palace hill.

Here, there was a hollow—just past a fallen tree and a stack of stones. It looked unremarkable now. But once, it was their secret world.

Wale and herself—children hiding from chores, from elders, from time. They made wooden swords and held mock battles, climbing the rocks and giving themselves ridiculous titles: General of Thunder, Queen of Arrows, Beast of the West.

She sat there now, in the silence. Touched the stone they once painted red with berries and called The Throne of the Dead King.

How fitting.

> "We used to think we were warriors," she said. "But we were just pretending."

Akinmule remained at a respectful distance, watching her with the eyes of a man who had lived through both innocence and atrocity.

> "Wale never stopped pretending," he said, after a long pause. "Even when the war started. He wanted something better."

> "And they killed him for it."

Her voice cracked. Not loud. Not angry. But worn. Like stone weathered by rain.

> "Irebu didn't fall because it was weak," she said. "It fell because someone wanted to prove a point. A political lesson. And the people bled for it."

Akinmule didn't deny it.

He was once the hand that lit the match.

---

V. The Signal

A whistle pierced the stillness.

One of the scouts climbed down from a rooftop near the old court square.

> "Smoke. Northern edge. It's fresh."

Moremi rose.

> "He's here."

She didn't have to name him. Akinmule knew.

Adedayo. The butcher of Wale. The enforcer of the Ojora lie.

She tightened the strap across her chest and reached for her blade. Her fingers curled around the hilt slowly, deliberately. There was no shaking. No hesitation.

> "I'm ready," she said.

> "Moremi…" Akinmule began, voice tight. "This doesn't have to end in death."

> "No," she replied. "It already did. Now it ends with truth."

---

VI. Into the Square

They moved as one, rebels in formation, eyes sharp. Moremi led them through a side alley, avoiding the main avenue. Her boots stepped over rubble and dried blood, over names erased by fire.

When they reached the edge of the square, the air was heavy.

Too still.

> "It's a trap," Akinmule said again.

Moremi smiled without humor.

> "Then let it close."

She stepped into the open.

Adedayo was waiting.