The morning broke over Odanjo with the hush of reverence. A slow golden spill of light touched the mountaintops and crept across the valleys like a sacred promise. Birds stirred in the canopies. Market stalls were only just beginning to open, and yet, within the palace walls, Ayọ̀kúnlé had already risen.
He stood barefoot in the Garden of Ancients.
This place had once been overgrown and silent swallowed by years of neglect. Now, the tall grasses were trimmed, the stone paths mended, the ancestor statues gently restored and respectfully adorned. The air carried incense, sage, and the soft hum of bees drifting between morning blossoms.
Ayọ̀kúnlé walked slowly, fingers brushing the petals of a white camellia.
His thoughts were still in the night sky, where he had sat long after the feast, long after the music had faded and his people had returned to their homes. He had watched the stars not in search of omens or constellations but as one who now understood his place beneath them.
He had been born under a curse.
Now, he stood under a crown.
But it was not the crown that weighed on him. It was the quiet.
The after.
The world had gone on after the war. But peace, he was learning, was not an end.
It was another kind of battle. Slower. Subtler. No less sacred.
Behind him, the familiar voice of Adérónké broke the silence.
"You didn't sleep again."
"I rested," he replied softly. "Just not with my eyes closed."
She stepped beside him, holding two small ceramic cups of freshly brewed tea. She offered him one, and he took it with a grateful nod.
They sipped in silence, the sun slowly rising beyond the garden walls.
"We have visitors again today," she said eventually. "The delegation from Kújòba. And the council wants your thoughts on the northern water treaty."
Ayọ̀kúnlé exhaled. "Of course."
"They'll wait if you need time."
"No," he said, shaking his head. "Let them come. Let the world keep spinning. If we delay until peace feels perfect, we'll never act."
She studied him with quiet admiration. "You're becoming a king in the way that matters."
He looked over the statues once more, then turned toward the hall. "Then let the king go to work."
The council chamber had transformed in recent weeks. Gone were the iron chandeliers and high-backed thrones of the past. In their place: a circular table made from the heartwood of the oldest tree in the forest, surrounded by seats crafted equally for comfort and inclusion.
No one sat above another.
Power was not about height here.
It was about presence.
Ayọ̀kúnlé entered and was greeted with warm nods from familiar faces Tùndé, now commander of the city guard; Elder Ṣọlá, the scholar-librarian who had emerged from exile to advise once more; young Rẹ́mí, who had grown from apprentice scribe to keeper of records. Even Móyèṣọlá was here, though she leaned by the open window rather than sit watchful as always.
"The envoy from Kújòba has arrived," Elder Ṣọlá said. "They come with offerings… and warnings."
Ayọ̀kúnlé raised a brow. "Warnings?"
"They claim whispers of movement in the eastern sands," Móyèṣọlá interjected. "Nomadic tribes have begun gathering. Symbols unknown to their histories. Drums unlike their rhythms. Someone is stirring them."
A ripple of unease passed through the room.
Ayọ̀kúnlé remained calm.
"Bring the envoy in," he said.
Moments later, a tall woman in desert robes stepped in, her face lined with sun and memory. She introduced herself as Náríah, Voice of the Sandwatchers. Her people had lived beyond the known desert for generations, rarely interfering in world politics. But the recent events had shaken even their solitude.
"We watched the darkness that hovered over your land," she said. "We saw the curse lifted, the sky break open. But we also saw… others. Watching from beyond. Listening. Waiting."
"Who are they?" asked Tùndé.
Náríah hesitated. "We do not know names. Only symbols. They call themselves The Hollow Court. They do not believe in peace. Only reclamation."
Ayọ̀kúnlé listened carefully.
Once, he might have dismissed such a threat. But he had learned—there were always forces in the world waiting for cracks in the foundation of peace.
"We thank you for your warning," he said. "And we offer hospitality in return. Sit with us. Share your maps. Let us learn."
Náríah nodded. "The old world thought strength was steel. We believe it is story. May we trade both."
The day rolled forward with decisions and dialogue. Treaties reviewed. Supply chains secured. Agricultural plans drawn up for the coming rains.
But by evening, Ayọ̀kúnlé found himself not in chambers or gardens but by the riverbank just beyond the city's edge.
Children were playing in the water, splashing and laughing with abandon. A small group of musicians sat nearby, playing soft rhythms that braided into the air like smoke.
He sat on the grass, hands folded over his knees, watching.
Not as ruler.
As witness.
Adérónké found him there, again.
"You always return to the water."
He nodded. "It reminds me of before."
"Before the curse?"
"Before the stories," he said. "Before I knew who I had to be. When I only knew how to feel. The water doesn't remember you. It simply accepts you."
She sat beside him. "There are stories we still haven't told, you know."
He turned to her. "Then we must make time for them."
They sat in easy silence as the sun fell behind the horizon, casting gold into indigo.
That night, in the Great Hall, Ayọ̀kúnlé lit the sacred lanterns himself. One by one, for each fallen life. Each choice made. Each vow kept.
He spoke no long speech.
Only one truth.
"We rise," he said.
The people echoed him.
"We remember."
They lit their own lanterns. A sea of light. Not in mourning but in memory.
And as they released the lanterns into the sky, the winds shifted. Not harsh. Not still.
But full.
Alive.
Hopeful.
Ayọ̀kúnlé stood beside his people not above, not behind.
With.
And in that moment, the world did not need a prince.
It did not need a warrior.
It needed a keeper of peace. A guardian of story. A reminder that curses end, and what comes after must be chosen with open hands and open hearts.
The stars turned overhead. Somewhere, beyond sight, drums beat again. Not of war. Not of conquest.
Of gathering.
Of what comes next.
And Ayọ̀kúnlé no longer afraid of what waited watched the lights rise.
And whispered, for no one but the night to hear:
"We are not finished."