PRINCESS ADJOA.
The night did not sleep.
Neither did the palace.
Princess Adjoa felt it the moment she stepped into the corridor outside the great hall. The air was restless—thick with whispers that had no mouths, secrets that had learned how to breathe on their own. Torches flickered though there was no wind. Guards stood straighter than usual, hands closer to their weapons.
The Supreme King had dismissed the court.
But he had not ended the hunt.
Kwame Bediako walked beside her, his steps uneven, his breath still shallow. Sweat darkened the back of his robe despite the cool night air. Every few steps, he glanced over his shoulder, as though expecting chains to snap closed around his wrists.
"Look forward," Adjoa murmured without turning her head.
Kwame obeyed.
Fear made people careless. Carelessness killed plans.
They reached a quiet archway leading toward the lesser halls—unused at night, ignored by most. Adjoa slowed, listening. When she was certain they were alone, she stopped.
"This is where we separate," she said.
Kwame turned to her, panic flaring instantly. "Princess—"
"You will go straight back to Nyame Nhyira," she continued, firm. "No detours. No conversations. No kindness. Anyone who asks questions tonight is not asking for answers—they are laying traps."
His hands shook. "And the records?"
Adjoa's jaw tightened.
"The records die tonight."
Kwame swallowed. "All of them?"
"All," she said. "Anything that mentions Madam Esi Nyarko. Anything that hints at dates, arrivals, departures, births, transfers. Paper, ledgers, donor notes—everything."
"But the King—"
"The King asked for surviving records," Adjoa cut in sharply. "We will give him exactly that."
Kwame stared at her, realization dawning slowly. "You mean…"
"Yes," she said. "By morning, there will be nothing left to survive."
A long silence fell between them.
Finally, Kwame whispered, "Fire?"
Adjoa did not answer immediately.
Fire was loud.
Fire left questions.
"No," she said at last. "Fire attracts witnesses."
Kwame's face paled further. "Then how?"
She leaned closer, her voice dropping.
"Ash can come from many things," she said. "Some quieter than others."
Kwame shuddered.
"You will not act alone," Adjoa added. "You will wait for my signal."
He nodded, though fear still clung to him like a second skin.
"And Kwame," she said, stopping him as he turned to leave.
"Yes, Princess?"
"If anyone—anyone—asks you about Madam Esi Nyarko tonight, even in kindness…"
Kwame met her eyes.
"…she died fifteen years ago," they said together.
He bowed deeply and disappeared into the shadows.
Adjoa stood alone for only a moment before turning sharply in the opposite direction.
She had her own work to do.
Queen Owusu's chambers were lit, though the hour was late.
Adjoa entered without announcement.
Her mother stood near the window, hands clenched in the folds of her robe, staring into the dark courtyard below as though expecting the past to rise from it.
"It has begun," Queen Owusu said softly.
"Yes," Adjoa replied. "And it will not stop unless we move faster than the King."
Her mother turned, fear naked in her eyes. "What did he see?"
"Enough," Adjoa said honestly. "But not everything."
Queen Owusu pressed a hand to her chest. "He spoke Madam Esi Nyarko's name aloud. Before the court."
"I know."
"That name should have died in silence."
"It will," Adjoa said. "Tonight."
Her mother studied her daughter's face—the calm, the control, the terrifying steadiness.
"What are you about to do?" Queen Owusu asked.
Adjoa did not soften the truth.
"I am about to erase a woman from history."
Queen Owusu closed her eyes.
"For your sake," Adjoa continued. "For Akosua's sake. For mine."
Silence stretched.
Then Queen Owusu spoke, her voice breaking. "I never wanted this burden to pass to you."
Adjoa stepped closer. "It didn't pass to me," she said gently. "I took it."
Her mother reached for her hand, gripping it tightly. "Be careful, Adjoa. Kings forgive rebellion faster than they forgive deception."
Adjoa nodded. "That is why he will never know it was deception."
The servants' wing was alive with quiet movement.
Adjoa blended easily—she had learned long ago how to become invisible when needed. She changed her outer robe, muted her jewelry, covered her hair. A princess who did not look like a princess passed unnoticed.
She reached the records chamber just past midnight.
Two guards stood at the entrance.
She did not slow.
"The Supreme King requests immediate access to donation archives," she said coolly.
The guards exchanged glances.
"At this hour?"
"Yes," Adjoa replied. "Unless you wish to explain delay to him personally."
They stepped aside immediately.
Inside, the room smelled of dust and ink—old paper, old truths. Shelves lined the walls, stacked with ledgers dating back decades. Names lived here. Names waited.
Adjoa's chest tightened.
This was where the past slept.
She moved quickly, scanning spines, pulling books free. Donation logs. Staff registries. Intake records.
Madam Esi Nyarko.
There.
Her fingers stilled.
For a heartbeat, she hesitated.
This woman had once rocked babies to sleep. Had wiped tears, fed mouths, protected children no one else wanted. She had not deserved fear. She had not deserved exile.
But she had carried the truth.
And truth was dangerous.
"I am sorry," Adjoa whispered.
Then she moved again.
She worked fast—too fast for doubt. She separated pages, memorized patterns, identified what could be safely altered and what had to vanish entirely.
She did not burn.
She dissolved.
Ink met water. Paper softened, broke apart, turned unrecognizable. Names blurred, dates smeared. She worked with practiced efficiency, hands steady despite the storm inside her.
By the time footsteps sounded in the corridor, sweat dampened her back.
She froze.
Voices approached.
Male. Low. Controlled.
Adjoa slipped into the shadows between shelves, heart pounding.
Two figures entered.
Council scribes.
"His Majesty wants everything by morning," one muttered. "Every name that doesn't sit right."
"They're starting with the motherless homes," the other replied. "Apparently, something there caught his attention."
Adjoa held her breath.
The men passed by her hiding place, scanning shelves.
One stopped.
"Strange," he said. "This section feels… thinner."
Adjoa's pulse spiked.
"Records decay," the other replied lazily. "Humidity. Age."
They moved on.
Adjoa did not breathe until their footsteps faded.
When she finally slipped out of the chamber, dawn was already threatening the horizon.
Nyame Nhyira did not sleep that night either.
Kwame Bediako moved like a man possessed.
He followed Adjoa's instructions exactly—quiet, precise, merciless. Records vanished into water barrels, names dissolved into pulp, ashes scattered into latrines and gardens.
By the time the sun rose, Madam Esi Nyarko no longer existed on paper.
Only in memory.
And memory, Adjoa knew, was fragile.
The Supreme King received the records at midday.
Stacks of them.
He flipped through pages slowly, methodically.
His fingers paused.
He frowned.
Then smiled.
"Interesting," he murmured.
He leaned back, eyes narrowing.
"Erase a trail," he said softly to no one, "and you admit there was something worth hiding."
Outside the chamber, Princess Adjoa felt a chill she could not explain.
Somewhere deep inside her, a quiet voice whispered a warning.
Ashes did not speak.
But kings listened to silence too.