Blood on the Palace Steps

The first scream shattered the stillness of dawn.

The palace, once a symbol of power and tradition, was now a fortress of fear. Blood soaked its steps, staining the marble that had once gleamed under the golden light of the Ama-Ogbo sun. The scent of death hung in the air, mingling with the dampness of the morning mist. The people of the kingdom stood at a distance, their whispers hushed, their faces etched with the horror of what they had witnessed.

Seiowei's justice had been swift and merciless.

The Execution Ground

At the base of the palace steps, a row of kneeling figures trembled. They were the remnants of the failed coup, men and women who had dared to challenge the tyrant's rule. Their wrists were bound behind them, their faces streaked with sweat and dirt. Some prayed under their breath, others sat in stunned silence, waiting for the inevitable.

Seiowei stood at the top of the steps, his robes darkened with blood not his own. His piercing gaze swept over the gathered crowd, his people, his subjects, his prisoners. His hand rested on the hilt of his sword, the same blade that had taken the lives of those who defied him. He was not a man given to long speeches, but today, his words would echo in the hearts of those who still dared to resist.

"This is what betrayal looks like," he said, his voice carrying across the courtyard. "These men and women thought they could unseat me. They conspired in the shadows, plotted in the dark corners of this kingdom. But Ama-Ogbo does not belong to schemers. It belongs to those strong enough to hold it."

A murmur rippled through the gathered onlookers. Some nodded in fearful agreement. Others turned their gazes away, unable to bear the sight of what was to come.

With a nod from Seiowei, the executioners stepped forward. Hooded figures wielding curved blades, their movements deliberate, their faces expressionless. They were not merely soldiers, they were instruments of the tyrant's will.

One by one, the condemned were dragged forward. Some wept, others spat curses. A young warrior named Ikena, who had once sworn to restore the true heir, lifted his chin defiantly.

"You may kill us," he said, his voice unwavering. "But the people will never call you king."

Seiowei's lips curled into a cruel smile. "They don't have to. As long as they kneel."

The blade fell, and Ikena's head rolled down the steps, leaving a crimson trail in its wake.

The Queen's Lament

From the shadows of a palace balcony, a pair of sorrowful eyes watched the slaughter. Isioma, the woman once betrothed to the rightful heir, clutched the railing as the executions continued. Once a princess of grace and dignity, she now lived in a gilded cage, trapped within the walls of the very palace she had once dreamed of ruling beside her beloved.

She had begged Seiowei to show mercy. She had knelt before him, her hands trembling, her voice breaking. But Seiowei did not entertain mercy; he saw it as a weakness, a crack in the foundation of his rule. And so, she was forced to witness the deaths of men who had once sworn to protect her family.

A tear traced down her cheek as she saw the next victim forced to kneel. It was Oseibiri, the last of the rebel generals. His face was bruised, his body weakened, but his spirit unbroken.

Seiowei stepped down, standing before the kneeling warrior. "You fought well, old man. Perhaps in another life, you would have been king."

Oseibiri's eyes burned with defiance. "And perhaps in another life, you would have been a man of honor."

Seiowei exhaled sharply, as if momentarily amused. Then, without another word, he drove his sword through the general's chest. The old warrior gasped, his body jerking once before he slumped forward, lifeless.

A collective shudder passed through the crowd. More blood. More death. And yet, Seiowei remained unmoved.

The Silent Rebellion

As the sun rose higher, the executions came to an end. The steps of the palace were slick with blood, the bodies of the fallen left as a warning to all who would dare rise against Seiowei. The people of Ama-Ogbo watched in silence, their grief suppressed beneath the weight of fear.

But silence was not surrender.

Deep within the city, in the darkened corners where Seiowei's reach was weakest, the rebellion still breathed. Whispers carried news of the fallen, their names etched into the hearts of those who would not forget. Hidden hands carved symbols of defiance into wooden doors and temple walls. The spirit of Ama-Ogbo had not been broken, only forced into the shadows.

Among those shadows, a figure moved unseen.

A young man, his features concealed beneath a hood, slipped through the alleyways, avoiding the patrols of Seiowei's guards. His heart pounded with every step, but his resolve remained steady. He had seen the bodies on the palace steps. He had watched his people suffer. And he knew that the kingdom could not endure under the rule of a tyrant forever.

The true king was out there, somewhere. Hidden. Waiting.

And until the day of reckoning came, the fight would continue.

Seiowei's Reflection

That night, as the palace halls grew quiet, Seiowei sat alone in his chamber. A single torch flickered, casting shadows across the walls. He ran a cloth over his sword, wiping away the remnants of the day's slaughter.

He had won again. Crushed another rebellion. Sent a message that would ripple across the kingdom.

And yet, as he stared into the polished steel of his blade, he saw something he had not expected, his own eyes, weary and uncertain.

He had spilled enough blood to drown a kingdom. But for how long could blood keep a throne?

Beyond the palace walls, the people still whispered.

And the gods remained silent.