Chapter 1: The King’s Bed

To save my brother, I climbed onto the chief’s bed—the royal bed, thick with the scent of camphor and old palm wine, reserved for the king of Palm Grove Kingdom.

My bare feet pressed the polished mahogany floor, the coolness seeping up and sending small shivers through my legs. For a moment, my heart pounded like agidigbo drum, but I swallowed my fear, reminding myself why I came. The old carvings on the bedposts—faces of ancient kings and the tortoise, trickster of our stories—stared at me, silent witnesses to my desperation.

The young king I once seduced and dumped just glanced at me, his face hard like carved iroko wood, shadowed by too much burden for a young king, while he continued reading his council documents.

His agbada sleeves shifted as he turned the page, gold embroidery catching lantern light. That face—Obiora—once cracked open with laughter at my sly jokes. Now, nothing. Only the slight tapping of his pen on the stack of papers, as if my presence was mere breeze.

I no even look back, just carry myself and sit down right on top his lap.

My wrapper rustled as I moved, the beads on my ankles clinking softly. I planted myself with the stubbornness my mother always warned about—no shame, no fear. Obiora stiffened under me, his breath hitching as I settled, but he forced his eyes back to his papers, acting like nothing happened. Palace guards outside murmured, their voices low like market sellers hiding gossip, but none dared peep inside, for this was king's business.

"Before, na me do you bad. Tonight, you fit do anything you like to me, just free my brother abeg."

My voice broke, softer than I planned, words tumbling out. My hand gripped his arm as if by that grip I could anchor my entire family’s hope. My chest tight, but I forced myself to meet his gaze.

Suddenly, he smile, his long fingers gently brushing my lips, eyes reflecting the fluttering Ankara curtains—wet, shadowy.

He smiled the smile of someone who has seen too many betrayals, lips curved but eyes cold. As his fingers traced my lips, I caught the faint scent of kolanut and aftershave, a combination that pulled me back to late-night chats under the mango tree years ago. The curtains danced, whispering secrets with the wind.

"You collect what you want, then dump me when you like—na so you see me, as your family dog?"

His voice held a hint of laughter, but pain lived underneath. There was that thing only two people who once loved could hear in each other's voice—a wound pressing for air.

I ask am, "So wetin you want now?"

My fingers trembled against his shoulder. I tried to hold his eyes, even as my heart pounded, afraid and hopeful all at once. My mother’s voice echoed in my head: “Courage no dey finish for Adekunle blood.”

He look me well, then talk with cold voice: "Kiss me."

He leaned closer, his words low and deliberate, daring me. In the soft flicker of the lantern, his face hard like carved iroko wood, shadowed by too much burden for a young king.