The palace of Benin hummed with peace. Markets bustled with the clatter of trade, farmers bent under the warm sun, and the laughter of children rose above the city walls. But beneath this serene tapestry, an ember of vengeance smoldered within Prince Nehikhare.
He trained relentlessly, the royal courtyard echoing with the clash of blades. Each strike, each parry, was more than practice—it was a promise. The warriors who sparred with him exchanged glances. Boys his age should not have eyes that burned so fiercely.
General Okankan watched from the shadows, her scarred arms crossed. Beside her, her daughter Yoname gripped her gloves too tight.
"He fights like a king," Okankan murmured.
"Or a demon," Yoname whispered back.
King Akhigbe's chambers smelled of medicine and madness.
The old king's fingers—once mighty enough to strangle lions—now trembled as they clutched Nehikhare's wrist. "They think me broken," he rasped. "But my hate has kept me alive."
Nehikhare said nothing. His birthmark seemed darker in the candlelight.
King Akhigbe, his body frail but his mind as sharp as ever, would summon Nehikhare to his chambers. Wrapped in shadows, the old king spoke of valor and betrayal, his voice a knife carving wounds into the boy's heart.
"You are not just a prince, Nehikhare," Akhigbe rasped one evening. His hand, skeletal and cold, rested on the boy's shoulder. "When I am ash, you must become the blade this kingdom needs. You are the blade of this kingdom. And a blade must cut."
Yoname, lingering at the door, felt her stomach twist.
By fourteen, Nehikhare had become more than just a boy—he was the living embodiment of Akhigbe's unyielding will. He moved through the palace like a shadow, gathering a small circle of loyalists. They were warriors who still knelt before the ghost of Akhigbe's vision, none more devoted than General Okankan, whose blade had drawn blood for both father and grandfather.
Beside her stood Yoname, Okankan's daughter. Though her admiration for Nehikhare was undeniable, doubt gnawed at her. She saw the madness in Akhigbe's stories, the danger in Nehikhare's resolve. She hesitated at the edges of their meetings, fingers twisting the worn leather of her gloves, her breath shallow as she watched them sharpen blades by moonlight.
When Akhigbe passed, Nehikhare stood by the pyre, a stone amidst the wailing. The blade his grandfather had gifted him hung at his side, Its cold metal a reminder of promises made in the dark.
That same night, with the ashes still warm on the wind, Nehikhare gathered his followers. His voice, steady and low, slithered through the shadows of the hidden courtyard.
"We will avenge my uncles' blood. The kingdoms that conspired against my family will pay."
Yoname stepped forward, her voice a tremor against the night's silence. "This path will lead us to ruin. Your father has worked hard to build peace. Do not destroy it."
His gaze, cold and unyielding, cut through her protest. "Peace built on the blood of my family is no peace at all. I will not rest until justice is served."
Under the cover of darkness, they became specters of war. Disguised as outlaws, they struck without warning. Flames devoured villages, the night sky painted with the glow of their fury. Soldiers fell to blades wielded by hands too young, and terror seeped into the hearts of their enemies.
For months, they remained a whisper, a nightmare none could name. But whispers are winds—they slip through cracks and find ears. Soon, King Akenzua heard tales of a masked warrior, a shadow of Benin's past leading a vengeful march. And when the truth surfaced, it shattered the fragile peace he had so carefully woven.
TheConfrontationwithAkenzua
The grand hall of the royal court fell silent as Nehikhare strode forward, his boots echoing against the polished stone. His sword hung loosely at his side, the darkened steel still smeared with drying blood. The crimson droplets left a faint trail behind him, a mark of his defiance.
King Akenzua sat atop his gilded throne, his knuckles pale as they gripped the lion-shaped armrests. His lips parted, but no words came at first—only a breath, ragged and thin. His shoulders sagged beneath the weight of his robes, and his gaze drifted to the bloodstains marring the pristine floor.
"What have you done? You have defied my rule," he said at last, the words slipping from him like stones into a dark well. His voice, usually a thunderous presence, now cracked at the edges. "You have brought shame to this kingdom… to our family."
Nehikhare did not flinch. His fingers tightened around the hilt of his sword, the leather-wrapped handle creaking under his grip. "I have brought justice," he shot back. His eyes, lit with an inner blaze, held his father's stare. "The blood of my uncles cries out from the earth, and I will not remain silent."
Murmurs rippled through the court, fear and admiration dancing in the faces of the gathered nobles. Akenzua's expression hardened. The soft lines of grief gave way to the rigid mask of a king. He rose, the weight of his crown making the movement slow and deliberate.
"You are banished," he said, his voice sharpening with resolve. "Go to the Kingdom of Meroe in the north. There, perhaps, you will learn discipline and restraint."
Guards moved in, their iron-clad hands seizing Nehikhare's arms. His mother and sister, Nosaze, stood at the edge of the room, their faces wet with tears. Adesuwa's lips trembled, her hands clasped tightly together as if praying to hold her son back. Nosaze's sobs broke through the silence, a raw, aching sound that clung to the marble walls.
But Nehikhare did not look back. His chin remained high, his expression carved from stone. The whispers of the court faded as he disappeared through the archway, swallowed by shadows.
Yet, fate had other plans. On the road to Meroe, He was lost to the forest, his body swallowed by the rustling leaves. In the kingdom, they buried an empty coffin. The mourners wore black, their faces veiled, while rumors of his death slithered through the streets. Bandits, they said. A prince lost to the wilderness.
King Akenzua, his heart heavy with grief and resolve, allowed the rumors to take root. It was the only way—to shroud his son in death's shadow and shield him from the blades of those who longed to spill his blood, though a flicker of doubt gnawed at him.
TheDeathofGeneralOkankan
In the wake of Nehikhare's disappearance, King Akenzua tightened his grip on Benin. The kingdom trembled under his decree, his soldiers moving like shadows through the alleys, torches sputtering as they dragged out those who had once sworn loyalty to Akhigbe. The city breathed in whispers and moved in hushed steps, fearing the cold knock at their doors.
General Okankan, the last bastion of Akhigbe's legacy, stood in the heart of her home. She had known this day would come, but her hands remained steady, fingers wrapped around the hilt of a blade. "Hide," she commanded, her voice a low rumble to her daughter, Yoname. "Do not make a sound."
Yoname pressed herself into the dark space beneath the floorboards, her knees drawn to her chest. Through the narrow slats, she saw her mother's feet planted firmly, unyielding as soldiers burst through the door. The air thickened with smoke and fear.
Aigbe, the king's officer, stepped forward, his patience snapped. "Enough of this," he spat. He nodded to his men, and the door slammed shut behind him. Oil splashed against wood, and flames licked up the walls, hungry and quick.
Okankan did not scream. Even as the heat blistered the air, her silhouette remained in the center of the room—a warrior against the tide. But the fire was relentless, and when her knees finally buckled, Yoname's small fingers bit into the dirt, her silent sobs echoing in her chest.
When the house had become nothing but embers, Yoname slipped away. She moved through the night, a shadow among shadows, leaving behind the scent of ash and the ghost of her mother's last stand. Fourteen years old, and already she had learned how to disappear.
Her feet bled on the path to the Kingdom of Aksum, each step a stitch in the tapestry of her vengeance — or perhaps her hate. Her lips never parted, even when the hunger gnawed and the cold bit through her thin clothes. She became a whisper on the wind, a lost girl in a foreign land, clutching the memory of her mother's final defiance.
The news spread far, pulling at distant shores like a rising tide.
Far away, a fire burned in the dark. A man carved marks into a tree, his voice a whisper:
"The time for weakness is over."