The sun blazed high over the Black Desert as Ayọ̀kúnlé and his companions pressed onward, the Bone Relic secured in Ayọ̀kúnlé's satchel. Their journey back toward Odanjo was a battle against the merciless elements and the unseen forces that trailed them.
Each night, strange phenomena unsettled the camp. Whispers floated through the air. Shadows danced without light. Once, Adérónké awoke to find her sword unsheathed and laid across her chest, though she had placed it carefully by her side. Tùndé set traps around their camp, yet every morning, they found them triggered with no sign of a culprit.
"The desert remembers," an old saying warned, and Ayọ̀kúnlé realized the Ruins of Ọ̀run had marked them more deeply than they understood.
Their return was not a march of triumph but of dread.
The sky began to change on the seventh day. Dark clouds rolled in, swirling unnaturally, casting an eerie twilight over the sands. Thunder growled, and from the distance came the distinct sound of drums.
"Those are war drums," Tùndé said grimly.
Ayọ̀kúnlé's hand tightened on the reins of his sandwalker. "Rányìn is moving faster than we thought."
As if in answer, a monstrous shape broke the horizon a fleet of creatures, flying under banners of black and gold. Rányìn's army. They were racing toward Odanjo to crush it before Ayọ̀kúnlé could return with the relics.
"We need to get ahead of them," Adérónké urged.
They spurred their mounts, pushing toward the hidden paths only the nomads knew, praying they could beat the army to the city.
But the desert would not make it easy.
A storm rose, fierce and blinding. Winds ripped at their cloaks, sand stung their eyes, and visibility shrank to nothing. They had to tie themselves together with rope to avoid losing each other in the chaos.
Hours passed in a miserable blur, until at last, as the storm began to abate, the walls of Odanjo rose before them battered but still standing.
Ayọ̀kúnlé's heart swelled with hope and terror. They had made it.
Barely.
The gates opened at their frantic banging, and soldiers rushed to meet them. Ayọ̀kúnlé immediately sought out the King, his father but was met with grim news.
The King lay on his deathbed, poisoned slowly by traitors within the court.
"He has waited for you," the royal healer said, leading Ayọ̀kúnlé and Adérónké to the royal chambers.
The sight of his father broke Ayọ̀kúnlé's heart. Once a proud, fierce man, the King was now gaunt, his skin pale and his breathing ragged.
He opened his eyes weakly as Ayọ̀kúnlé knelt by his side.
"My son," he whispered. "The throne... will need you."
Ayọ̀kúnlé bowed his head. "I will defend it. I swear it."
The King smiled faintly and closed his eyes.
A long moment passed then the healer gently covered the King's face with a cloth.
The King of Odanjo was dead.
There was no time to mourn.
The city was in chaos. Factions within the palace vied for control. Some whispered that Ayọ̀kúnlé had been gone too long, that others should lead.
But when Ayọ̀kúnlé produced the relics symbols of divine favor the whispers grew quieter. Even the most ambitious knew better than to challenge one favored by the ancient powers.
A coronation was planned, rushed, and tense.
The night before the ceremony, Ayọ̀kúnlé stood on the palace balcony, staring out over the city he was about to inherit.
Adérónké found him there.
"You're worried," she said.
He nodded. "The relics chose me, but... what if they chose wrong?"
She stepped closer, laying a hand on his arm. "You have something Rányìn never will."
"What?"
"Love for this land."
He smiled, a small, sad thing, and placed his hand over hers. "Stay with me," he said.
She didn't answer with words. She leaned in and kissed him a kiss that spoke of all they had fought for, all they had lost, and all they still hoped to save.
For the first time in weeks, Ayọ̀kúnlé dared to hope.
The coronation was unlike any in Odanjo's history.
The relics were placed on sacred pedestals before Ayọ̀kúnlé. The High Priest chanted the ancient rites. The crown a circlet of gold and fire was lowered onto his head.
As the final words were spoken, a shockwave of power burst from the relics, washing over the city.
The people of Odanjo fell to their knees, weeping, laughing, singing. They felt the blessing.
Ayọ̀kúnlé rose, King at last.
But even as the cheers rang out, he felt a shadow brush against his heart.
From the highest tower of the citadel, Queen Rányìn watched through her enchanted mirror.
"Let him have his day," she murmured. "Tomorrow, I bring the night."
That night, Ayọ̀kúnlé could not sleep.
Visions plagued him visions of Odanjo burning, of his friends dying, of Adérónké fading into mist.
In the final vision, Rányìn stood over him, offering her hand.
"Come to me," she said. "Rule at my side."
He woke in a cold sweat.
As he rose to wash his face, he noticed something odd a small, black feather resting on his windowsill.
He picked it up.
It disintegrated into smoke.
The enemy was closer than he thought.
The next morning, scouts returned with grim news.
Rányìn's army was less than two days away.
They marched with creatures of nightmare dragons made of bone and fire, soldiers stitched together from the dead, warlocks cloaked in living shadows.
Ayọ̀kúnlé called a council.
"We cannot face her head-on," Tùndé argued. "Her army is too strong."
"We have the relics," Adérónké countered. "We have the people's faith."
Ayọ̀kúnlé listened in silence, then spoke.
"We fight," he said. "Not because we are ready. Not because we are certain. But because we must."
He placed his hand over the relics laid out on the council table.
"Tonight, we prepare. Tomorrow, we defend Odanjo."
And so they did.
The city walls were reinforced. Traps were set. Archers lined the battlements. Priests blessed the weapons. Warriors painted their faces with symbols of protection and defiance.
Ayọ̀kúnlé walked among them, speaking words of courage, binding the hearts of the people to his own.
When he spoke, they listened.
When he promised he would stand with them, they believed.
As the sun set, casting blood-red light over the desert, Ayọ̀kúnlé climbed the highest tower and looked to the horizon.
There, in the distance, a storm approached.
Not of nature.
Of war.
And at its heart, he saw her.
Queen Rányìn, clad in black armor, riding a monstrous beast of bone and smoke.
Their eyes met across the miles.
Ayọ̀kúnlé felt her voice in his mind.
"Run, little prince. Run, or be destroyed."
He clenched his fists.
"We do not run," he whispered.
And the relics at his side flared with light.
Tomorrow, the battle for Odanjo would begin.
And the world would never be the same again.
To be continued...