Haru wiped her tears and looked between us, her voice low and trembling but sharp with conviction.
"El-Dorado…" she whispered, as if even saying the name might summon divine wrath."It is an ancient rite — a sacred challenge passed down from the time of the gods. When a man believes he is stronger or worthier than the king, he can invoke El-Dorado. It's not mere rebellion… it's a duel before the gods themselves."
Her hands gripped her robes tighter.
"To issue the challenge, the man must first prove his might — by bringing the heads of ten fierce beasts to the king's court. Only then can he demand the duel. The king must accept, or else grant the challenger whatever he desires. Refusing El-Dorado is the same as admitting defeat before the gods."
I could see Hana's expression twisting with disbelief.
"But, Mother… no one would dare!"
Haru nodded grimly.
"No one except fools and legends. And even they met their end. For if the challenger loses, he becomes a slave to the king until the day he dies. But if the king falls…"
She hesitated, as though the words themselves were forbidden.
"Then the king must surrender everything — his crown, his women, his kingdom — and pledge his loyalty to the victor."
The air went still.
Even the forest outside seemed to hush.
"It is said," Haru continued, her voice now faint, "that King Solomon himself has fought twice in El-Dorado. And both times, he stood victorious. None who have faced him lived to tell the tale. For El-Dorado ends only when one yields… or when one dies."
Hana's knees gave way beneath her. "Then it's hopeless," she whispered. "No one can defeat him."
But I didn't answer. My mind was already racing — not with fear, but with fire.
The royal lodge pulsed with tension. The air was thick with the scent of burning herbs and sweat, torches crackling against the clay walls. King Solomon sat on a raised throne of carved stone and beast furs — towering, broad-chested, his presence alone enough to make grown men tremble. His black beard framed a face carved from fury, and even his silence felt like thunder waiting to strike.
Beside him, Queen Abiel reclined with quiet grace, dressed in a robe woven from rare spider-silk threads, dyed deep indigo and decorated with crystal beads. Simple yet elegant — a deliberate contrast to her husband's raw might. Her gold bangles and necklaces shimmered faintly in the firelight, every movement measured, every smile calculated.
King Solomon: Chief Goro, I was told your settlement had a fine hunt this season. Yet your offering looks… meager. Are my eyes failing me, or are your people growing lazy?
Chief Goro (bowing low, voice trembling): N-no, my King. The hunters faced drought near the valley and beasts grew scarce, but your share will not lack. My life, and theirs, are yours to command.
Queen Abiel (softly, but with a smirk): Perhaps the Chief is too modest, my King. His people hunt, yes… but I heard whispers that their true treasure lies in their women. Strong… youthful… untouched.
King Solomon (turning his head slightly): Untouched? Hah. Perhaps that explains why my advisor spoke of a daughter born under a red moon. Such omens are rare.
Chief Goro (shaking, eyes darting): M-my King… she is but a child of the soil, no different from others. I—
King Solomon (interrupting): Enough. You speak too much, Chief.
Abiel leaned closer, her voice like silk sliding over steel.
Queen Abiel: My King, I merely thought… if the soil weakens and beasts grow thin, perhaps the gods demand something purer. You are, after all, the blood of the divine. What better way to bless the land than to let your sacred seed touch it?
King Solomon (grinning, ego swelling): Hah! You speak wisely, my Queen. The gods must indeed be pleased. Perhaps this girl shall serve as the vessel of their will.
Chief Goro's face went pale as death. His lips quivered, but no words dared escape. The Queen saw his despair and smiled faintly — not from joy, but satisfaction.
Queen Abiel (smoothly): Your silence speaks for your loyalty, Chief. Such devotion honors you… and your daughter's fate will honor the kingdom.
King Solomon (nodding, satisfied): Indeed. Prepare her for the ceremony. The blood of the divine must not wait.
Chief Goro tried to speak again, but his wife, Haru, was not present — her absence weighing heavy in the King's growing impatience.
King Solomon (voice rumbling like a storm): Where is your wife, Chief? Has she not been summoned?
Queen Abiel (sweetly, yet cutting): It seems the Chief's family struggles to understand royal urgency. Perhaps… they need a reminder of what disobedience costs.
King Solomon (growling): I will not tolerate insult from servants. If she does not arrive soon—
Just then, the door opened. Haru entered, kneeling immediately. Her face was pale, her lips trembling, but her eyes burned faintly — not with defiance, but desperation.
King Solomon: You dare keep your King waiting?
Haru (bowing deeper): Forgive me, my King. I was preparing my daughter, as commanded.
Queen Abiel (feigning pity)" How touching. A mother dressing her lamb for the slaughter".
Haru froze. Her eyes flickered for a moment — then lowered again.
King Solomon (to Goro): Bring the girl before sunset. I expect her ready. If not… I will make an example of your bloodline.
Chief Goro (voice cracking): Y-yes, my King.
As Solomon's words fell, silence filled the hall like a tomb sealing shut. The Queen's soft laugh was the only sound that lingered — elegant, merciless, and satisfied.
The silence inside the royal lodge stretched thin as a blade. Torches flickered, shadows twisting against the clay walls. King Solomon sat forward on his throne, one hand resting lazily on the hilt of his blade, the other drumming against his knee. His patience was running out — and everyone could feel it.
King Solomon: Where is the girl? You've had enough time to drag her from her hut, Chief.
Chief Goro (bowing, voice trembling): M-my King, she… she will be here any moment.
King Solomon (snapping): You said that before. Do you mock me now, old man?
Queen Abiel (leaning in, voice dripping with honey): My King, surely the Chief would not dare mock you. But one cannot help but wonder… is this hesitation a form of disrespect? Perhaps the Chief's loyalty has grown weak with age.
Her eyes glittered like poison under moonlight — every word chosen to sting.
King Solomon (growling, rising from his throne): Disrespect… to me?