The wind whispered like an old friend across the twilight plains of Ọ̀ṣunlé, bearing with it the voices of a people rediscovering their breath. Fields once scorched by war had begun to turn green again. Small shoots broke through the soil, reaching toward a sky now less heavy with sorrow.
Ayọ̀kúnlé stood at the edge of the great stone balcony of Ọ̀rúndà Court, the restored heart of Odanjo. Below, artisans rebuilt crumbled halls. Children chased goats between crates of supplies. Songbirds nested in the eaves where owls once mourned the dead. The land was healing not because the battle had been won, but because the will to rise again had outlasted the night.
Behind him, the royal hall buzzed with quiet conversations. Diplomats, scholars, and clan leaders who once spoke through clenched teeth now debated openly over scrolls of cooperation. Trade routes. Water rights. Educational exchanges. Nothing flashy just the threads of civilization being sewn anew.
But Ayọ̀kúnlé felt the pulse of the earth in his bones. And with it, a warning: peace was not permanence. It was a garden that required tending. And not all seeds bore sweet fruit.
Footsteps echoed behind him.
He didn't turn. "How many today?"
Móyèṣọlá came to his side, draped in a flowing robe the color of a storm-lit sea. "Seven envoys. Three from allied clans, four from lands across the sea. One of them claims to come from the Dominion of Ṣèlú, though that kingdom hasn't opened its borders in nearly a century."
Ayọ̀kúnlé's brows drew together. "That can't be a coincidence."
"No," she agreed. "Nor can the symbols they bear." She handed him a small parchment. Scrawled in ink the color of dried blood was a sun devouring its own rays.
Ayọ̀kúnlé traced the image with a finger. "It's a prophecy symbol. One I saw carved into the wall of the Shadow King's tomb."
"Meaning?"
He sighed. "Meaning we broke the curse... but not the cycle."
For a moment, silence passed between them like a shared breath.
Then Móyèṣọlá spoke gently, "Cycles are meant to be broken too. But they require different tools."
Ayọ̀kúnlé smiled faintly. "And different warriors."
From within the hall, a child's laughter rang out. He turned to see Adérónké juggling fruit for a trio of children, her fierce eyes softened by joy. Tùndé leaned against a pillar nearby, feigning disinterest but smiling nonetheless.
There were days he still doubted. Nights when he dreamed of fire and saw his cursed self in the mirror. But morning always came. And with it, reminders like this simple, human moments.
He faced Móyèṣọlá again. "Let's speak to this envoy. Together."
She nodded. "As it should be."
They moved through the hall side by side. Doors opened before them, guards bowing in respect not just to a king, but to the burden he bore.
In the council chamber, the envoy from Ṣèlú waited. He was tall, his skin weathered like river stone, with eyes that gleamed like obsidian under starlight. He wore no weapons, but a quiet tension coiled in his stance.
"You are Ayọ̀kúnlé of Odanjo," the man said in a voice like gravel over silk. "Breaker of the Curse. Caller of Ancestors."
"I am," Ayọ̀kúnlé replied, settling into his seat. "And you are?"
"I am Ọlákanmí, the Watcher of the Sealed Lands. I come bearing both warning and invitation."
Móyèṣọlá raised an eyebrow. "A curious combination."
Ọlákanmí's gaze did not flinch. "There is a door beneath the Sea of Glass. It has remained closed for centuries. The curse that once gripped your soul was one of the locks. With it broken, that door now stirs."
Ayọ̀kúnlé leaned forward, heart suddenly pounding.
"What lies beyond?"
"Not a monster," Ọlákanmí said softly. "But memory. A truth older than kingdoms. Older even than the gods you pray to."
The room chilled.
Ayọ̀kúnlé spoke carefully. "Why tell us this now?"
"Because your relics were forged in part from that truth. Because the Shadow King was merely a shadow of what once ruled all."
A beat passed.
Then Ayọ̀kúnlé whispered, "The First Flame."
Ọlákanmí nodded.
The First Flame spoken of only in myth was said to be the origin of magic, time, and will itself. A gift… or a test. None knew which. If such a force still burned beneath the world, then the end of one curse might simply herald the beginning of another reckoning.
"What do you want from us?" Ayọ̀kúnlé asked.
"I want you to come," Ọlákanmí said. "To bear witness. To decide what must be done before others do so with ruin in their hearts."
Ayọ̀kúnlé looked to Móyèṣọlá. Her eyes held no fear only resolve.
He turned back. "We will come. But not alone."
That night, the stars over Ọ̀ṣunlé danced with strange fervor, as though even the heavens were restless.
In the great hall, Ayọ̀kúnlé met with his circle. Tùndé, Adérónké, Móyèṣọlá, the twin scholars from Ilẹ̀-Mọ́ Ọmọyẹmí and Dàda and Sányà, the giant of the southern ridges who spoke with mountains and had arrived only weeks before with an army of beasts.
Each had faced war. Each had lost. And each had stayed not for glory, but for something more enduring.
When Ayọ̀kúnlé spoke of Ọlákanmí's message, none flinched.
"Should've known," Adérónké muttered. "One bad fire always hides another."
Dàda's eyes gleamed. "The Sea of Glass has long been uncharted. We'll need maps. Histories. Songs."
"We'll need anchors," Móyèṣọlá added, her voice low. "Not all truths should be faced unguarded."
Ayọ̀kúnlé looked at them all, firelight dancing in his eyes. "Then we go. Not as warriors. Not as kings. But as keepers of peace."
Three days later, they set off at dawn.
The procession was modest no banners, no fanfare. Just cloaks, packs, and weapons honed not just by steel, but by memory.
The Sea of Glass lay to the east, past the Hills of Ṣàbà and the echoing fields of Elédè. It was a place untouched by time, where nothing grew, and even shadows bent strangely.
As they journeyed, the world shifted around them.
In the hills, they passed shrines abandoned for centuries. Spirits of wind and wood emerged, nodding in solemn respect before vanishing.
In Elédè, they were greeted by a caravan of wandering singers who gifted them a melody woven from the dreams of birds. "To remember who you are when the silence comes," the leader explained.
Every step deeper brought not fear, but clarity. As if the land itself had long waited for this walk to begin.
And then on the seventh dusk they saw it.
The Sea of Glass.
It stretched for miles, still and perfect, a mirror of the sky. Not water, not stone something in between. A frozen lake of memories. At its heart rose a black spire, like a dagger plunged into the world's vein.
Ayọ̀kúnlé felt it immediately. A pull. A calling.
He stepped forward.
The others followed.
Crossing the Sea of Glass was like walking through time. Reflections shifted beneath their feet visions of lives unlived, choices never made, futures still possible.
One moment, Ayọ̀kúnlé saw himself as a farmer, laughing with children beneath a mango tree. Another moment, he stood alone on a throne of bones, power radiating but soul hollow.
He shook the visions off and pressed forward.
At last, they reached the spire.
Its surface shimmered with the colors of dusk and dawn. Symbols pulsed on its surface some familiar, others alien.
At its base, a door awaited.
And upon it, words carved in the tongue of the Ancients:
"To open is to remember. To remember is to choose. Choose well."
Ayọ̀kúnlé placed his palm upon the door.
It did not resist.
It sighed open.
And within light.
Endless, radiant, terrifying light.
But they did not turn away.
For they had come not to conquer.
But to understand.
And thus, the journey that began with a curse now reached the heart of creation.
And the world would never be the same.