The Lost king

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 AKINMULE'S POV

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The wind whispered through the bones of Irebu.

Akinmule rode beside Moremi, but his thoughts walked far ahead of them—years ahead, across ashes that never cooled. The path into the eastern part of the city was narrow now, choked with weeds and the broken bodies of houses long forgotten. Trees had sprouted through roof beams. Stone shrines leaned with age and neglect. But the ghosts? The ghosts stood tall.

He didn't look at Moremi.

She had her own pain to carry, and he would not burden her with his.

Not yet.

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I. The Road He Burned

Each step of his horse's hooves echoed louder than it should've. He dismounted before they reached the village center. He didn't need to be on horseback for this. He deserved to walk.

His boots crunched against old char. Bits of pottery littered the path—tiny, shattered remains of what once held yams, water, stories. He bent and picked one up. The red clay was smudged black with smoke and time.

He had burned this place.

No denial. No excuses.

He remembered the screams. The smell of fat and fear in the wind. The glow of Irebi at night, burning like an offering to gods no one prayed to anymore. The cries of children echoing between walls as his men took what they wanted, and he had done nothing to stop them.

Worse.

He led them.

> "What did I become?" he thought.

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II. The Shrine and the Boy

They passed the old shrine near the well.

He paused.

The pillars were cracked now, but the soot marks were still fresh in memory. He had thrown a torch into that sacred place with his own hand. He remembered Wale—just a boy then—standing in front of the shrine with a broken spear and more courage than any general Akinmule had ever served with.

> "You don't belong here," Wale had told him.

> "Neither do you," Akinmule had answered.

Now Wale was gone.

Murdered by the same empire Akinmule once served. Murdered by Adedayo—the very man Akinmule helped raise into power.

He stared at the cracked statue of the Irebu guardian goddess.

> "I do not ask your forgiveness," he muttered. "But let me bleed for this land, if it buys peace."

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III. Moremi's Silence

Moremi didn't speak to him as they walked further.

He didn't expect her to.

But when she slowed at the mango tree, her shoulders trembled. Akinmule recognized it.

Grief without outlet. Fire with no wind.

He kept his distance, but when she spoke, her voice surprised him.

> "This was where I last saw Wale laugh."

He looked up. The tree still stood. Charred in places, yes. But alive. Stubborn.

> "He laughed at me for climbing too high," she continued. "I fell. Broke my wrist."

She didn't look at him.

> "You were in the distance that day. Marching in."

> "I remember," Akinmule said quietly.

> "You didn't look back at us."

Akinmule's voice was steady. "Because I didn't want to see what I was destroying."

They stood in silence. The wind rustled dry leaves above.

> "I don't need your apologies," she said.

"I know."

"But don't die a coward again."

"That… I can promise."

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IV. The Sound of War

Then came the sound.

Far off at first. A low war horn, distant but distinct.

The Ojora were here. Or rather, still here—those who had taken Irebu and made it a garrison.

Akinmule's fingers closed around the hilt of his sword.

His knees felt heavy. Not with fear—but with weight.

This was the place he once painted with blood. Now he would defend it.

He turned to the soldiers behind them—young men and women, eyes wide, breaths shallow.

> "Hold the line," he told them. "Not for me. Not for names. For this soil. For the children who lived here. For the ones who never had the chance."

He looked to Moremi.

She gave one nod, and nothing more.

---

They marched forward.

Into the ruins.

Into the memory.

Into the redemption that could only be earned by blood.

 AKINMULE'S POV

---

The wind whispered through the bones of Irebu.

Akinmule rode beside Moremi, but his thoughts walked far ahead of them—years ahead, across ashes that never cooled. The path into the eastern part of the city was narrow now, choked with weeds and the broken bodies of houses long forgotten. Trees had sprouted through roof beams. Stone shrines leaned with age and neglect. But the ghosts? The ghosts stood tall.

He didn't look at Moremi.

She had her own pain to carry, and he would not burden her with his.

Not yet.

---

I. The Road He Burned

Each step of his horse's hooves echoed louder than it should've. He dismounted before they reached the village center. He didn't need to be on horseback for this. He deserved to walk.

His boots crunched against old char. Bits of pottery littered the path—tiny, shattered remains of what once held yams, water, stories. He bent and picked one up. The red clay was smudged black with smoke and time.

He had burned this place.

No denial. No excuses.

He remembered the screams. The smell of fat and fear in the wind. The glow of Irebi at night, burning like an offering to gods no one prayed to anymore. The cries of children echoing between walls as his men took what they wanted, and he had done nothing to stop them.

Worse.

He led them.

> "What did I become?" he thought.

---

II. The Shrine and the Boy

They passed the old shrine near the well.

He paused.

The pillars were cracked now, but the soot marks were still fresh in memory. He had thrown a torch into that sacred place with his own hand. He remembered Wale—just a boy then—standing in front of the shrine with a broken spear and more courage than any general Akinmule had ever served with.

> "You don't belong here," Wale had told him.

> "Neither do you," Akinmule had answered.

Now Wale was gone.

Murdered by the same empire Akinmule once served. Murdered by Adedayo—the very man Akinmule helped raise into power.

He stared at the cracked statue of the Irebu guardian goddess.

> "I do not ask your forgiveness," he muttered. "But let me bleed for this land, if it buys peace."

---

III. Moremi's Silence

Moremi didn't speak to him as they walked further.

He didn't expect her to.

But when she slowed at the mango tree, her shoulders trembled. Akinmule recognized it.

Grief without outlet. Fire with no wind.

He kept his distance, but when she spoke, her voice surprised him.

> "This was where I last saw Wale laugh."

He looked up. The tree still stood. Charred in places, yes. But alive. Stubborn.

> "He laughed at me for climbing too high," she continued. "I fell. Broke my wrist."

She didn't look at him.

> "You were in the distance that day. Marching in."

> "I remember," Akinmule said quietly.

> "You didn't look back at us."

Akinmule's voice was steady. "Because I didn't want to see what I was destroying."

They stood in silence. The wind rustled dry leaves above.

> "I don't need your apologies," she said.

"I know."

"But don't die a coward again."

"That… I can promise."

---

IV. The Sound of War

Then came the sound.

Far off at first. A low war horn, distant but distinct.

The Ojora were here. Or rather, still here—those who had taken Irebu and made it a garrison.

Akinmule's fingers closed around the hilt of his sword.

His knees felt heavy. Not with fear—but with weight.

This was the place he once painted with blood. Now he would defend it.

He turned to the soldiers behind them—young men and women, eyes wide, breaths shallow.

> "Hold the line," he told them. "Not for me. Not for names. For this soil. For the children who lived here. For the ones who never had the chance."

He looked to Moremi.

She gave one nod, and nothing more.

---

They marched forward.

Into the ruins.

Into the memory.

Into the redemption that could only be earned by blood.