In the time before the kingdoms clashed, many rose and fell beneath the weight of ambition and fate. But this story, like so many others, is not merely the tale of kings and queens — it is the tale of those whose names were carved into history by time itself.
Am Adazee. I watched from afar as a queen rose over a grieving land, her people whispering of war. I saw kingdoms falter, warriors vanish, and secrets stain the stones of palaces. And now, I will tell you what I witnessed.
In the Golden Age, on the western coast of Africa — where lush forests yielded to wide savannas — a kingdom of unmatched might thrived. The Benin Kingdom, famed for its intricate bronze sculptures, bustling marketplaces, and warriors whose iron weapons were the envy of the region, was ruled by a man whose ambition had no bounds: King Akhigbe. Under his stern rule, Benin flourished, its lands rich and its people skilled in craft and combat. Yet Akhigbe hungered for more than prosperity — he craved dominance.
Driven by the desire to make his name eternal, Akhigbe waged relentless campaigns against neighboring realms. Kingdom after kingdom fell to his banners, their rulers forced to kneel or perish. But such victories came at a heavy cost. In their desperation, his enemies sought vengeance not on his armies, but on his bloodline.
One night, shadows slipped past stone walls, and by dawn, four of Akhigbe's five sons lay dead alongside their families. Only the youngest, Prince Akenzua, escaped — fleeing into the dark with his wife and children clutched close.
The loss hollowed the king. The man whose laughter once filled banquet halls now sat alone in the dim light of his chamber, his crown forgotten on cold stone. Servants passed quietly, their trays of untouched meals piling at the door.
Amid this fracture, Akenzua took the throne. He walked among his people with open hands and a steady voice, forging fragile alliances with cautious neighbors. Yet even as Benin began to heal under his reign, old scars festered, and the minor kingdoms remained bound to him by wary oaths.
At thirteen, Prince Nehikhare listened intently when his grandfather spoke. A dark birthmark curling from his left eye down to his neck earned him both wary glances and whispered reverence. His mother called him Nehizena — a name spoken with love and pride — but it was Akhigbe's words that took root in his mind. As Nehikhare traced the grooves of old bloodstains in the palace stone, the old king's voice coiled in his ear: "Never forget. Never forgive.