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Scene 1 – A Village on the Edge
POV: Adeola
The wind swept over the tall grasslands of Akinmo Village, stirring dust and memory alike. Birds soared above the palm groves, their calls sharp and restless—as if the earth itself could sense something was wrong.
Adeola crouched by the river, dipping his hands into the cool current. The reflection that stared back at him was not that of a boy anymore. His jaw was sharper now, his shoulders broader. But still, he felt trapped—caged in a village that seemed too small for the dreams swelling in his chest.
He glanced toward the ridge, where the forest opened into the distance. Beyond that lay stories—warriors, kingdoms, forgotten magic. He'd grown up hearing whispers from the elders. Of kings who vanished. Empires that rose on blood. Heroes who fell.
But here he was. Fishing. Hiding. Existing.
"Adeola!"
He turned. Babatunde, his father, hobbled down the hill, leaning on his carved walking stick. His voice was stern, but beneath it was fear.
"You promised you'd stay within the village. You want them to find you?"
Adeola frowned. "No one's seen Ojora soldiers here in weeks."
"That's when they're most dangerous. They don't march like warriors. They slither like spirits."
Adeola lowered his head, but his fists clenched behind his back.
"Why do they get to rule? Why does everyone let them?" he muttered.
Babatunde didn't answer. Not right away. His old eyes scanned the horizon, where smoke sometimes drifted—far but not far enough.
"You'll understand one day," he murmured. "And I pray that day never comes."
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Scene 2 – Fire and Iron
POV: Commander Tunde Ojora
The drums of war were silent. Tunde Ojora preferred it that way.
Silence brought fear. Noise gave enemies time to prepare. But fear made them weak. Soft. Easy to burn.
He stood atop a black horse, his crimson cloak fluttering. Before him stretched a sleeping border village—mud huts, shrines, market stalls. People who thought they were safe this far from the capital.
He drew his sword, the metal dark and bloodthirsty.
"Make it scream," he ordered.
And so they did.
Fire leapt. Children cried. Mothers begged. Blood soaked into the earth like rain.
Tunde rode through it all like a shadow with a crown, lips curled in satisfaction. Every village destroyed was one less ember of resistance. His father, King Adekunle Ojora, had taught him well.
Rule with fear.
Burn their gods.
Make them forget their names.
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Scene 3 – Secrets in the Night
POV: Babatunde
The whispers reached Akinmo by dusk.
The village elder summoned a quiet meeting. Rumors of raids. Of the empire moving west. Of villages vanishing like mist.
Babatunde returned home with heavy legs. He found Adeola sitting by the fire, silent, distant. The boy had always been bold. Too bold. It scared him.
He stared at the old trunk in the corner—the one sealed since the day he found the child. He'd promised never to open it.
But promises were a luxury in a world ruled by tyrants.
He knelt. Hands trembling. Opened the lid.
A torn cloth with the emblem of a forgotten kingdom. A royal ring. A letter never sent.
He sat beside Adeola. "You're not mine by blood."
Adeola blinked. "What?"
"I found you, years ago. Wrapped in silk. Beneath the ruins of a palace. You were crying... but you were alive."
"Which kingdom?"
Babatunde opened his mouth—
—but the horns of war cut through the night.
Then came the screams.
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Scene 4 – Ashes and Death
POV: Adeola
Fire kissed the sky.
Adeola staggered from the hut, the heat biting his skin. The village was in chaos. People ran, tripped, screamed. Horses trampled. Steel flashed.
And then he saw him.
A man in black and red armor. Cold eyes. Blade dripping.
Tunde Ojora.
Babatunde stood between them, holding a simple blade. He knew he wouldn't survive.
"Run, Adeola!"
"No—!"
The sword cut clean.
Babatunde fell, blood blooming from his chest.
Adeola screamed—a raw, broken sound—and ran into the burning forest.
He didn't look back.
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Scene 5 – The Whisper in the Trees
POV: Unknown (Narrator – Omniscient)
Deep within the shadowed forest, the boy collapsed.
Smoke clung to his clothes. Tears streaked his face. In his palm, the ring Babatunde had slipped into his hand—a symbol he did not yet understand.
Figures emerged from the trees—cloaked, silent, watching.
One knelt beside him, brushing a hand across his brow.
"He's the one."
"You're sure?"
"His blood remembers."
The eldest nodded. "Then the time has come. Take him to Chief Alade. The king's blood cannot die in the dirt."
They lifted the boy.
In the distance, the empire feasted on another village. But in the trees, hope began to move.