The invitation came not with words, but with a shift in the atmosphere. Iya, the elder attendant, had entered Moremi's pod and, with a series of deliberate, rustling gestures, conveyed that the King requested her presence for the evening meal. Not in the great hall where the silent community gathered, but in a smaller, more secluded chamber adjacent to his own.
A cold dread, sharp and metallic, had coiled in Moremi's stomach. This was the intimacy she had feared, the closing of the trap. Yet, intertwined with the dread was a thread of undeniable, treacherous curiosity. The memory of Bimpe's whispered impression—He is lonely—echoed in the quiet of her mind.
She dressed with a care that felt both strategic and deeply personal. She chose her finest remaining wrapper, a deep indigo that, while faded, still held a regal hue, and retied her gele with a precision that spoke of her upbringing. She was armoring herself in the remnants of her identity, a queen of one people preparing to dine with the king of another.
The chamber was a surprise. It was circular, open on one side to a breathtaking vista of the starlit canopy. The night air was cool and carried the chorus of nocturnal insects and the distant, haunting call of a nightjar. Instead of the polished, intimidating darkness of his throne room, this space was warmed by the glow of several fat, honey-scented candles set in niches carved into the walls. The floor was strewn with deep, woven rugs patterned with geometric designs, and low cushions of soft, undyed wool were arranged around a central, low table of polished ebony.
The King was already there. He stood by the open archway, a colossal silhouette against the tapestry of stars. He was not wearing his full, ceremonial regalia, but a simpler, though no less imposing, sheath of raffia, this one unadorned with colored threads. The fearsome, luminous mask was still in place, but his posture was different. Less the unyielding pillar of authority, more a man… waiting.
As she entered, he turned. The candlelight caught the deep, non-reflective wood of his mask, making the carved patterns seem like channels into an infinite darkness.
You came, his mental voice resonated, softer than she had heard it before, the vibration a low thrum that felt more intimate in the small space.
"You summoned," she replied, her tone neutral, carefully balancing respect with the spirit of defiance he seemed to value. "A queen answers the summons of her king."
A series of those soft, clicking vibrations she now understood as amusement emanated from him.
A statement of fact. Not of submission. This is why you are here.
He gestured to the cushions. On the low table was a simple meal. Roasted yam, still steaming, its skin crisp and blackened in places. A paste of ground melon seeds and fiery peppers. Sections of a strange, spiky fruit with translucent, jewel-like flesh. A gourd of cool, fresh water. It was humble food, warrior's food, a stark contrast to the complex, spiced dishes of the Ile-Ife palace.
He settled onto a cushion opposite her, his movements, though still imbued with that alien grace, less rigid. He did not eat—she had never seen an Ugbò remove their mask—but he gestured for her to begin.
Tell me of your cage, he said, the thought-form drifting into her mind as she carefully broke off a piece of yam. The one you fled. The… warlord.
Moremi's mind raced. She had to maintain her fiction, but she could weave it with threads of her own truth. "His name was not important. His character was. He saw people as assets. Alliances as transactions. There was no… partnership. Only ownership." She dipped the yam in the pepper paste, the heat a welcome shock on her tongue. "A king who rules by fear alone builds his throne on sand."
A wise observation, the King hummed. Fear is a tool. A sharp, quick blade. But it is not a foundation. A people united by fear will shatter the moment a greater fear appears. He shifted, the raffia whispering. My people are not united by fear of me. They are united by a shared purpose. A understanding of our place in the great pattern of the forest. My role is not to command, but to… interpret. To listen to the whispers of the world and guide them accordingly. It is a heavy burden.
The parallel was so stark it stole her breath. She was instantly back in the strategy room in Ile-Ife, the scent of lamp oil and desperation thick in the air, Ọranyan's face etched with the same weary grimness as he confessed his feeling of powerlessness. "How do you fight a shadow, Moremi?" Both kings, rulers of vastly different worlds, shouldering the same impossible weight.
"I understand burdens," she said softly, her eyes meeting the dark void of his mask. She was no longer playing a part. She was speaking as herself, as a queen. "The weight of every life. The knowledge that a single misstep, a single failure of judgment, can lead to suffering you can never atone for."
Yes. The single, resonant word was filled with a depth of understanding that shook her. You do understand. It is in the stillness you carry. It is not the stillness of submission, but the stillness of deep water, concealing great currents. He paused, and the candlelight seemed to pulse with his silence. Your people… they noise and clamor. They fill the air with their fears and desires, deafening themselves to the world. But you… you listen. I have seen you. You watch my people. You learn our ways. You do not dismiss what you do not understand.
He was disarming her with a perception so acute it felt like he was seeing straight through her fabricated past into the very core of her being. This was not the interrogation of a captive, nor the boasting of a conqueror. It was the conversation of one ruler to another. A meeting of minds across a chasm of biology and culture.
"To dismiss is to remain ignorant," she replied, her heart beating a frantic, confused rhythm. "And ignorance is a luxury no ruler can afford."
What would you do? he asked, his mental voice taking on a genuine, curious tone. If you were in my place? If you saw a neighboring hive growing too large, too loud, consuming everything in its path, threatening the balance that sustains your own? Would you wait for them to stumble into your tree? Or would you… prune the branch before it could break?
The question was a moral abyss. It was the very heart of the conflict between Ile-Ife and the Ugbò. She thought of Ọranyan's desire for a wall of fire, for open war. She thought of the King's methodical, targeted raids, designed to cripple, not necessarily to conquer. Who was the aggressor? The city expanding its fields, or the forest defending its borders?
"I would seek to understand the hive," she said carefully, choosing her words like steps on a narrow bridge. "To see if its noise was a threat, or merely a different song. Perhaps there is a way for the hive and the tree to coexist. Perhaps the tree provides shelter, and the hive… pollinates its flowers."
The King was utterly still. The candles guttered, casting long, dancing shadows. For a long moment, she feared she had overstepped, that her metaphor of coexistence would be seen as weakness or naivete.
A fascinating thought, he resonated finally, and she could have sworn she felt a wave of… warmth? intrigue? from his direction. A dangerous thought. But fascinating. You see patterns where others see only chaos.
In that moment, the mask, the raffia, the terrifying otherness of him, all seemed to recede. She was not sitting with a monster. She was sitting with a brilliant, isolated, and profoundly burdened consciousness. The enemy was becoming a person. And her heart, treacherous and starved for the intellectual companionship she had shared with Ọranyan, was responding to it. The conflict within her was a tempest. He burns your villages. He terrifies your son. He is the source of your people's sorrow. But another voice whispered, And he is listening to you. He sees you. Not as a prize, but as a mind.
It was in the midst of this swirling internal chaos that the world erupted.
It began as a single, sharp, high-frequency vibration from somewhere outside, a sound like a shattering crystal. Then another. And another. In seconds, the serene night was torn apart by a cascade of these alien alarms, a frantic, staccato rhythm that screamed of intrusion and violence.
The King was on his feet in an instant, his immense form radiating a sudden, terrifying power. The contemplative ruler was gone, replaced by the war-chief. The raffia of his body stiffened, the whisper becoming a sharp, aggressive hiss.
From the doorway, a warrior appeared, its mask turned towards the King. A rapid, complex series of clicks and hums passed between them, a language of crisis. Moremi understood none of the specifics, but the intent was clear: We are under attack.
The King turned back to her. The candlelight flashed against the dark wood of his mask. His mental voice, when it came, was not the soft, resonant hum of their conversation, nor the cold logic of a strategist. It was sharp, urgent, and laced with something that stunned her into silence.
It was concern.
Stay here, the command was absolute, but the undertone was protective. This chamber is secure. You will be safe.
And then he was gone, a rustling vortex of power and purpose, sweeping out into the chaotic night to defend his home.
Moremi stood alone in the suddenly fragile-seeming chamber, the candles flickering wildly. The sounds of conflict—the sharp cracks of wood on wood, the terrifying sizzle of what could only be fire-arrows striking leaves, the frantic, vibrational alarms—echoed through the tree-city. Her mind, so carefully ordered, was in ruins.
She had the answer for Ile-Ife. Fire. She had witnessed its horrifying effectiveness. She should be hoping for chaos, for a rival tribe to wound the Ugbò, to make her eventual escape easier.
But she wasn't.
A cold, clear realization washed over her, so horrifying it made her legs feel weak. In that final moment, as he had told her to stay safe, a part of her—a genuine, unfeigned part—had felt a jolt of fear. Not for herself.
For him.
She had worried for the safety of the Beast King.
Her hand flew to her mouth, as if to physically push the traitorous thought back inside. She stared out at the violent flashes of light in the dark canopy, the sounds of a battle that was not hers, yet felt terrifyingly personal.
"Oh no…" she whispered into the honey-scented air, the words a confession of a defeat far greater than any military loss. "My mission… what is happening to my heart?"