The winds that swept across the highlands of Odanjo carried a bitterness that hadn't been felt in generations. It was not the chill of weather, but of war, secrets, and impending betrayal.
Prince Adetokunbo stood at the edge of the sacred grove, where the roots of the Ayanla tree were said to listen to the spirits of the fallen kings. His cloak fluttered in the breeze, its gold embroidery catching what little light filtered through the dense canopy above. The world had changed he had changed. The boy who once believed his curse was a punishment now understood it was a path one paved with fire, blood, and destiny.
Behind him, Ireti approached quietly, the hem of her purple robe brushing leaves with a whisper. "You summoned me," she said, voice low, almost reverent. "Is it time?"
Adetokunbo didn't look back. "Not yet. But the drums will sound soon. The elders are restless, and the people demand a sign. We must prepare."
Ireti nodded. She had become more than his companion she was the sharp blade hidden behind the smile, the voice that calmed his rage, the shadow that saw what he could not. And she, too, bore her own secret. One she hadn't dared to speak.
"Tokunbo," she said suddenly. "There is something you must know. The prophecy… it speaks of a betrayal within the sacred circle."
He turned slowly, his eyes glowing faintly the curse, always lingering just beneath his skin. "Who?" he asked, voice sharp.
She hesitated. "It doesn't say. But someone close. Someone who knows your path, your heartbeat. Someone who will smile and stab."
He clenched his fists. The weight of destiny was heavy but betrayal? That was personal.
Just then, a rustle in the trees drew their attention. A scout appeared—one of the royal trackers. He bowed low. "Your Highness. The emissary from Ogbomosho has arrived. He seeks private audience."
Adetokunbo's face darkened. The emissaries of Ogbomosho were known for their riddles and masks. They rarely traveled without reason and never without threat.
"Bring him to the Hall of Storms," he said. "And summon Aremu. I want no tricks."
As the scout vanished, Adetokunbo glanced once more at the Ayanla tree. The bark had darkened since his last visit. The spirits, it seemed, were uneasy.
The Hall of Storms stood at the heart of the palace a circular chamber lined with obsidian stones and ancient murals that whispered of gods and fallen empires. Flames danced in iron braziers, casting shadows across the walls as the emissary stepped forward.
He wore a mask of bone and feathers. His robes shimmered like oil in sunlight. When he spoke, his voice echoed, as if layered.
"Prince of Odanjo," he said. "The winds speak your name. The rivers taste your sorrow. The mountain echoes your anger. Shall we speak?"
Adetokunbo sat upon the throne carved from black rock. "Speak, then. But do not waste my time with riddles."
The emissary chuckled, a dry, mirthless sound. "Then here is the truth. Your enemies gather. Not just within your walls, but in the hearts of your people. The curse you bear… it is feared. Whispers grow. Even now, they plan your fall."
"Who are 'they'?"
"Those who drink with you by day and sharpen their blades at night."
Adetokunbo narrowed his eyes. "Are you here to warn me… or to threaten me?"
"Neither. I come with a bargain. From the High Oracle of Ogbomosho."
He stepped forward, producing a scroll bound in golden thread. "Break the curse. Surrender your claim to the throne. And in return, Ogbomosho will protect your lands, your people… and you."
Silence fell.
Then Adetokunbo laughed long, hard, bitter.
"You think I would kneel? Surrender to those who watched my mother burn? Who whispered poison into the ears of my father?"
The emissary tilted his head. "Then prepare for fire. For when the next moon rises, Ogbomosho will no longer speak with tongues. Only steel."
That night, the palace boiled with unease. Servants whispered in corners. Guards tightened their patrols. In the hidden chamber beneath the eastern tower, Adetokunbo met with Aremu, Ireti, and General Bashiru the only men and woman he trusted.
"We strike first," Bashiru said, slamming his gauntlet onto the stone table. "Burn their outposts. Send a message."
"No," Adetokunbo replied. "That's what they expect."
"Then what?" Ireti asked. "Wait to be surrounded?"
"No," he said again. "We do the unexpected. We awaken the guardians."
Gasps filled the room.
"The guardians were bound for a reason," Aremu said. "Their rage nearly consumed the last dynasty. To unleash them"
"—is to remind the world that Odanjo is not afraid," Adetokunbo finished.
He looked around the table. "I have been cursed, yes. But it is not weakness. It is my bond with the old gods. If I must embrace the darkness to save my people… so be it."
The silence that followed was not of disagreement but fear. And awe.
Three nights later, under a moon red as blood, Adetokunbo stood before the ancient gates of Ibajẹ Oju-ọrun The Forbidden Vault.
Only three had ever entered. None had returned unchanged.
As he placed his palm on the sigil-carved stone, a pulse of energy surged through his veins. The curse stirred, reacting to the ancient power. He could hear the whispers low, guttural, in a language older than time.
"Are you ready?" Ireti asked, behind him.
He looked back. "No. But that has never stopped me."
The gate creaked open.
Inside, darkness reigned. Not the absence of light, but a living, breathing void. Each step forward echoed like thunder. As they reached the inner sanctum, a figure emerged from the shadows.
It was massive horned, winged, with eyes like burning suns.
"You come to wake me," it said. "But what price will you pay?"
Adetokunbo stepped forward, voice steady. "My blood. My name. My throne. Whatever it takes."
The beast smiled. "Then let the binding begin."
Pain ripped through him as ancient symbols lit up his skin. His curse fought the new power, twisting, merging, becoming something else. Stronger. Wilder.
When it ended, he collapsed to his knees, gasping.
"You now carry the Wrath of the Fallen," the guardian said. "Go. Burn your enemies. But know this what is awakened cannot be undone."
When Adetokunbo emerged from the vault, the winds shifted. Thunder rumbled though the sky was clear.
The prince was no longer just a cursed boy. He was a force reborn.
And as the people of Odanjo gathered, watching him rise from the sacred hills with fire dancing around his cloak, they knew
The war had truly begun.
But in the shadows, unseen, a figure smiled.
A hand clutched a blade laced with poison.
And the betrayal foretold by prophecy crept ever closer.