The moon hung heavy over Odanjo, casting a silver sheen over the palace walls as if trying to shield the kingdom in its delicate glow. But not even the light of the heavens could ease the tension that gripped the cursed prince's heart. Ayọ̀kúnlé stood at the edge of the ancient grove, the very place the Oracle once warned him never to return to unless he was ready to face the truth of his bloodline.
He tightened his grip around the hilt of the obsidian blade hidden beneath his cloak—a relic gifted to him by the Shadow Brotherhood, forged with secrets and soaked in ancestral magic. The sword trembled faintly as if resonating with the forest's pulse. Somewhere deep within, the spirits stirred.
Behind him, the soft footfall of someone approaching reached his ears. He turned, blade half-drawn, only to see Adérónké stepping out of the mist. Her hair was wrapped in midnight silk, her eyes sharp like twin stars. "I told you not to come alone," she whispered.
"I had to. If I don't face this now, everything we've built, everyone we've tried to protect, will be swallowed by what's coming," Ayọ̀kúnlé said, his voice low.
She walked closer, fingers brushing his. "Then let's face it together."
They entered the grove. The trees, ancient and vast, parted in eerie silence. Time didn't move the same way here. The deeper they walked, the heavier the air became. Adérónké could feel it, layers of enchantment wrapping around them like cobwebs, brushing her skin, whispering things she couldn't understand.
Suddenly, the ground trembled. A rift opened between the roots of a massive iroko tree, revealing stairs carved into stone, descending into the earth.
Ayọ̀kúnlé looked at her. "The tomb of Ọba Gbẹ́nga."
Adérónké's breath caught. The name was sacred, feared, and forgotten by many, Ayọ̀kúnlé's great-grandfather, the king who was said to have traded the soul of his first son for unending power.
They descended.
Each step was a story. Each torch that flickered to life as they passed lit murals of a kingdom born of both glory and betrayal. At the end of the hallway stood a door. It was simple, wooden, yet humming with power. Ayọ̀kúnlé reached for it.
A voice stopped him. Raspy. Ancient.
"Blood calls to blood, cursed one."
From the darkness, a shape emerged. Bent, skeletal, cloaked in red. The Keeper. The last witness to the sins of the Odanjo throne.
"You carry his shame," the Keeper said, pointing a bony finger at Ayọ̀kúnlé. "Do you dare uncover it?"
Ayọ̀kúnlé nodded. "I must."
The Keeper stepped aside. "Then know this: once the truth is known, it cannot be unseen. Once the gate is opened, it cannot be closed."
With a push, the door creaked open. Inside, the chamber of Ọba Gbẹ́nga was more than a tomb, it was a memory suspended in magic. Crystals floated in the air, replaying scenes like spirit mirrors.
They saw him, Gbẹ́nga, the great king, kneeling before a faceless god cloaked in fire. They heard his oath:
"Take my bloodline. Curse my heir. But grant me strength to save my people."
Ayọ̀kúnlé stumbled back. The curse had never been punishment, it was protection. A deal forged to keep darkness at bay by making the firstborn of every royal generation a vessel for containment.
Adérónké gripped his hand. "You were never broken. You were a seal."
Suddenly, the chamber shuddered. The seal his very life, was weakening. The darkness that Gbẹ́nga had once contained began to push against the realm of reality. The price of truth was cracking the prison.
"RUN!" the Keeper screamed. "It's waking!"
But Ayọ̀kúnlé didn't run. He stepped forward, into the heart of the darkness. And it spoke.
A voice older than time, cold as death:
"I know you… little prince. Will you serve as your ancestors did… or shall we break the chain?"
The prince straightened. "No. I will do what they never dared. I will end you."
The air shattered. Shadows screamed. The story had shifted.
Outside the grove, thunder cracked over Odanjo.
And for the first time in centuries, the sky wept fire.