The journey back to Abiriba was slow, not because of distance, but because of the heaviness they carried. The nkume ndụ root, wrapped in sacred cloth and held close to Uzoaru's chest, seemed to hum with a life of its own. It pulsed in rhythm with her heartbeat, as though sensing the urgency of its purpose.
Rain fell in whispers, not in storms, as if the skies too were holding their breath for the prince's fate.
At dusk on the third day, they stood at the edge of the royal palace.
But it was no longer the place they had left.
Where once guards stood proud at the gates, now armed men with grim faces eyed them with suspicion. The once-vibrant market within the walls was silent. Not even the griots sang at sunset. Grief had settled like dust over the land.
They passed the gates, and murmurs followed them—villagers whispering tales of two maidens, both once close to the prince, both now returned with strange eyes and stranger power.
Inside the courtyard, Uzoaru's mother ran to her daughter, embracing her tightly with trembling hands. She had grown old in those weeks, worry drawing new lines across her face.
"We feared the worst," she said, voice cracking. "Even the gods turned quiet."
Nwanne's return was colder. Her father approached, stern-faced.
"You defied me."
"I survived," she said.
He stared at her for a moment, then turned away. "The spirits will finish what I could not."
It stung, but Nwanne held her head high.
Inside the Healing Chamber
The prince lay still in the center of the inner chamber, skin pale, lips cracked. His breath came in shallow gasps, chest barely rising.
His father, King Iweala, knelt beside him. The great ruler's eyes had sunken, and his once-bold voice had dulled to a whisper.
Obim handed the wrapped root to the palace seer, a woman older than time itself. Her skin was the shade of storm clouds and her hands bore tattoos that spoke of forgotten battles.
She unwrapped the nkume ndụ and placed it into a carved bowl of lion bone. Mixing it with sacred oil and crushed kola nut, she stirred with a staff tipped with eagle feathers.
"This medicine is not just for the body," she murmured. "It will unbind what pride and disobedience have sealed. But someone must carry the final chant—one who still believes in him."
Uzoaru stepped forward, hand trembling.
She sat at the prince's side, placing a hand over his heart. She began to sing.
A lullaby.One she used to hum on quiet nights.One he used to tease her for.
"Kele chi m, Nwabueze… Nani gi bu ugo n'obi m…"
The seer poured the glowing mixture onto his chest.
His body arched, mouth parting in a silent cry. Light pulsed from the bowl to his skin, then to Uzoaru's hand, then into the air. The entire chamber lit up.
Outside, the skies roared.
And then…
Silence.
A long breath escaped his lips. His eyes fluttered open.
And they locked on hers.
Reawakening
The palace erupted with cheers. Bells rang. Drums sounded from distant hills.
Uzoaru stood, tears in her eyes. But Nwabueze did not sit up fully. His face twisted in confusion.
"Where… where am I?" he whispered. "Why are you crying?"
She smiled through the tears. "Because you live."
He blinked slowly, as if the world still hadn't returned in full.
And then, he saw Nwanne.
His smile faltered.
"I saw… something. In my sleep. You…"
Nwanne stepped forward, gaze calm. "Whatever you saw, it is only memory."
"No," he murmured. "It was truth."
Before anyone could question him further, the palace seer raised her staff.
"The healing is not complete," she said. "The curse lingers—not in the prince's flesh, but in his fate."
All eyes turned to her.
"Two women journeyed through death and shadow. One from love, one from hunger. Now the land itself must decide."
The king frowned. "Decide what?"
She looked at Uzoaru. Then at Nwanne. Then at the prince.
"Who will stand beside the throne."