Amanse's homeland, Amaaku—a name which, when whispered in reverence or chanted in song, meant "the home of wealth"—was once the pride of the rainforest kingdoms. Nestled deep within the thick, emerald folds of the rising sun region—what would, in distant tongues and future times, come to be known as Nigeria—Amaaku stood as a testimony to prosperity and peace crafted by discipline, dignity, and divine favor.
The kingdom's riches were not merely counted in gold, pearls, or the rare metals traded with neighboring lands, but in the industrious heartbeat of its people. They were tillers of fertile soil, fishers of abundant rivers, weavers of the finest threads, and keepers of culture passed down like sacred beads. Amaaku's people rose with the sun and honored it, gave thanks to the rain and the forest, and they sang to their gods in voices layered with awe and humility. Even though their warriors trained endlessly and their armory glittered with polished bronze and obsidian edges, Amaaku was a kingdom that rarely, if ever, went to war. Peace was not just a condition—it was a custom, a prized jewel in their cultural regalia.
The kingdom had always been ruled by kings known as Amadike—a title reserved exclusively for male heirs of the Dike clan. These kings were not elected, not questioned, and rarely even seen. When the king made a public appearance, he wore a terrifying, elaborate mask carved from sacred iroko wood and painted in divine pigment that shimmered under sunlight and shadow alike. The people believed it was the same king who had been ruling them for centuries—ageless, tireless, eternal. The truth was far more grounded: upon the death of a reigning Amadike, the crown passed to the eldest son, as tradition dictated.
For centuries, the line of Dike kings had been fair, just, and deeply devoted to the gods of their ancestors. Under their reigns, Amaaku had flourished. The rivers remained full, the trees bore fruit in season, and the market squares were filled with laughter, color, and song. But all that was slipping now. Slowly. Surely.
Something ancient and cruel had crept into the land. It came not with swords, not with fire, not with noise—but with silence. An eerie stillness that settled like dust over everything. The gods, once so present, so responsive, had grown mute. The rains came out of rhythm. The soil had started to rebel. Animals grew lean. Children fell ill. People whispered about curses, about forgotten covenants. Even the most faithful had begun to doubt.
And this morning—the very morning Amanse would come face-to-face with his own destiny—King Amadike the 15th, ruler of Amaaku, was not seated on his golden throne. He was pacing.
Inside the Obieze, the sacred throne room of kings, the air was thick with incense and history. Golden lions stood on either side of the wide doors, fangs bared and manes sculpted with divine artistry. The walls were draped in embroidered silk and dyed hide, bearing ancient patterns and sacred geometry. All around the room were stone statues, life-sized and identical in mask, each one carved to represent a former Amadike. Though masked, each sculpture differed subtly—some with a raised staff, others with a seated poise, their robes sculpted with unique flourishes, some scholarly others obviously warriors, reflecting the kind of reign they had. It was said that these statues whispered to each other in the dark of night, judging the worth of the living king among them.
And at the heart of the room stood the throne itself—a high-backed seat of solid gold, embedded with precious stones of green, red, and blue. It gleamed even in the dimmest light. At its base rested thirteen crowned skulls—the trophies of fallen kings who had dared to invade Amaaku and failed. Each skull was enshrined with iron crowns, their hollow eye sockets eternally fixed in defeat. Sitting atop the throne, leaning gently against the carved armrest, was the Ofo—the sacred staff of office and symbol of divine authority. It was said that as long as the Ofo stood in Amaaku, no enemy could conquer the land.
But none of this comforted the king today.
Amadike the 15th was a giant of a man, broad-shouldered and thickly bearded, his body still strong from years of wrestling and war, though age now tugged at his limbs. In his youth, tales of his strength had traveled beyond the seven kingdoms. He had fought beasts that haunted the forests and emerged bloodied but unbowed. Each of his wives—three in total—he had won in the traditional contest of strength and wit. He was a man born for war, but now found himself confronted by an enemy without a face.
He paced like a lion in a gilded cage, muscles rippling under his loose royal wrapper. His fists opened and closed restlessly. If only he could meet this calamity in the wrestling circle—he would crush it. But this? This invisible rot eating through the veins of his kingdom? It taunted him.
At the doorway, a soft voice broke through his thoughts.
"Papa," came the voice, trembling but clear.
He turned and saw his daughter—Adaugo, his firstborn and favorite, his son still fumbling with their mothers' wrappers—kneeling just at the entrance to the Obieze. Her presence there was almost blasphemous. No woman had ever stepped foot inside the throne room in the known history of Amaaku. But the moment he laid eyes on her, his anger melted. She looked so much like his late mother—plump-cheeked, wide-eyed, her skin a smooth clay-gold that glowed even in shadows. Her beauty was renowned; already, noble sons from across the kingdoms were offering dowries and treasures for her hand.
"Ada m, what troubles you?" the king asked, voice softer now. "Should you not be in the Usekwu helping with the morning meal?"
Adaugo's lips trembled.
"That's just it, Papa. You need to come. Now. Something is wrong."
Without hesitation, the king stormed down the polished corridor, Adaugo trailing behind him. They reached the Usekwu—the massive kitchen that served the royal household. The air was thick with the scent of spices, but something was off. Very off.
Pots sat on fires. But the fires were… flickering weakly. The serving girls were kneeling in quiet confusion, fear clouding their eyes. When the king entered, they lowered their gazes and bowed, not daring to look upon him without his ceremonial mask.
"What is this chaos?" the king barked.
Only Akudo, the chief maiden, dared to speak.
"Your Majesty, we've been trying to cook breakfast since cockcrow. But the food… it won't cook. Something is wrong with the fire."
The king frowned and strode over to one of the large earthen pots sitting over a makeshift hearth. The flames licked the pot, but something felt off. He reached out, touched the pot—and hissed. It was hot. Yet, when he opened the lid and dipped his finger into the bubbling water, he flinched.
Ice.
Not warm. Not lukewarm.
Freezing.
The water, despite sitting on flame for hours, was nearly solid cold.
He stepped back, chest tightening. His eyes flicked to the yam beside the pot—still white, still raw.
"You mean to tell me you've been trying to boil this… for three hours?" he whispered, his voice laced with disbelief.
Before Akudo could answer, a guard burst into the kitchen, breathless and wide-eyed.
"Your Majesty! Forgive my intrusion—but the Ezemmuo… he has returned."
The kitchen went silent. Even the faint crackling of flame seemed to hush.
The Ezemmuo, chief priest of Amaaku, had not been seen in nearly a season. Some said he had gone into the sacred forest to commune with the gods. Others whispered that he had died.
And just as the words left the guard's lips—thunder cracked across the sky, loud and jarring, like the gods had slammed their fists against the heavens. Outside, the clouds churned like black waves. And then, before their very eyes, the flames on every fireplace in the kitchen… died.
The fires that had burned for generations without fail—through drought, through war, through flood—vanished. One after the other. No wind. No rain.
Just silence.
A cold silence that felt final.
The kingdom held its breath. And Amaaku, once the home of wealth and warmth, began to tremble.