Silencing the Kingmakers

The torches flickered against the cold stone walls of the great hall, their light casting long, trembling shadows over the gathered men. The air was thick with the scent of sweat and fear. Before them, seated on the high throne that was never meant to be his, Seiowei stared down at the last remnants of the kingmakers, the men who had once decided the fate of Ama-Ogbo.

Their robes, once symbols of wisdom and power, were now tattered. Their faces, once proud and revered, were pale with the knowledge of what was to come. Some had their hands bound, others stood with their heads bowed in quiet defiance. They had seen death before, but never had it felt so close, so inevitable.

Seiowei's fingers drummed against the armrest of the throne. He had allowed these men to live longer than he should have. He had thought their silence was enough, that stripping them of their authority had reduced them to mere relics of an old order. But he had been wrong. They still held power, not through titles or commands, but through whispers, through their refusal to acknowledge him as king.

And now, that defiance had festered into a disease that threatened his rule.

The Last Stand of the Wise

Chief Orubibi, the oldest among them, lifted his chin. His voice, though hoarse with age, still carried the weight of a man unbroken. "This throne does not belong to you, Seiowei. No matter how much blood you spill, the gods will never call you king."

A murmur rippled through the room. Even in chains, even on the brink of death, the old man dared to defy him. The audacity of it made Seiowei's jaw tighten.

"You still speak of the gods," Seiowei said, leaning forward. "Tell me, Orubibi, where were your gods when your warriors fell before me? When your rightful king fled like a frightened child?"

Orubibi's gaze did not waver. "The gods do not rush to save fools. But they are patient. And they are watching."

Seiowei stood, the metal of his armor gleaming in the dim light. He stepped down from the throne, his boots echoing against the marble floor. His sword, already stained from past executions, was unsheathed with a slow, deliberate motion.

"I do not fear gods who remain silent," he said. "But I will not tolerate men who defy me."

With a nod, his guards seized the kingmakers who remained standing. Some struggled, others did not. Orubibi simply sighed, as though he had been expecting this all along.

The Execution of Tradition

The palace courtyard was eerily quiet. No crowds had been gathered for this execution. There were no messengers to spread the tale. Seiowei did not need an audience for this moment. This was not for the people, this was for him.

The kingmakers were forced to their knees before the sacred ancestral stone, the very place where past kings had been crowned with honor. Now, it would be a place of slaughter. Seiowei approached them slowly, his sword dragging along the ground, leaving a thin silver line in the dust.

"You have spent your lives deciding the fate of kings," he said. "Tonight, I decide yours."

He turned to the first man, Chief Ebimaye. Once, he had been the voice of justice in Ama-Ogbo. Now, he was just another obstacle in Seiowei's path.

"Speak my name," Seiowei commanded. "Call me king, and I will spare you."

Ebimaye met his gaze, his eyes filled with neither fear nor submission. "A tyrant does not become a king because he demands it."

Seiowei exhaled through his nose, almost amused. Almost. Then, with a swift motion, he drove his sword through the old man's chest. A sharp gasp, a shudder, and then silence.

The others watched, their faces unreadable. Seiowei turned to them, his blade still dripping. "Anyone else?"

No one spoke. No one begged. They had already made their choice.

One by one, he cut them down. The sacred stone, once a place of honor, was now drenched in the blood of those who had upheld the old ways. The final breath of Orubibi was barely a whisper, yet it carried more weight than a thousand screams.

"The gods are watching," he rasped before his body crumpled to the ground.

Seiowei wiped his blade clean.

The Weight of a Kingdom

That night, he stood alone in the great hall, the silence pressing against him like a heavy cloak. The kingmakers were gone. There was no one left to question his rule, no one left to deny him.

And yet, he felt no triumph.

Instead, there was an emptiness, one he could not name, one he could not escape. He poured himself a cup of palm wine, the liquid bitter on his tongue. He had won. He had silenced those who stood against him.

So why did their whispers still linger in his mind?

Outside, the winds carried the echoes of a kingdom that had not yet forgotten its rightful king.