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Now known to the world as Queen Cecelia of Telly, she was once Chinwe—a Nigerian-American girl living an ordinary life in an America that was on the verge of breaking.

It began when the world’s youth—ages five to twenty-five—started developing inexplicable powers. Some could control the elements, read minds, or see across time. Others could heal incurable diseases, invent impossible technology, and vanish into thin air. The world split in two: Crepians, powerful and feared; and Repians, gifted and relentlessly hunted.

Governments panicked. Experiments began. Freedom disappeared. No one was safe.

Cecelia never asked for power. She never asked to lead. But when she and Lucas—a fierce, brilliant Crepian who would one day become her king—escaped the government's grasp, they forged something new. Together, they built Telly: a nation for the gifted, born in rebellion, shaped by love, and standing against the world’s fear.

Now, as queen, Cecelia looks back on the journey—the rise, the loss, the power, the betrayal, and the love that changed everything.

This is her story. How a girl became a queen.
How fear became freedom.
And how love survived it all.

Crepian Flame, Repian Light

The living room was dead silent. The air felt thick, like we were underwater. I watched Mom stand frozen in front of the TV, the remote still in her hand, her lips parted like she wanted to say something but couldn't. Dad leaned forward on the couch, arms crossed so tight they looked like they were holding him together. I could feel the tension in the room before the president even opened his mouth.

His face appeared on every screen—CNN, YouTube, Instagram Live clips being reposted everywhere. He looked tired. Older. Like he hadn't slept in days.

"To all citizens of the United States and the global community..." his voice began, and my stomach tightened.

He talked about the explosion, the mysterious power awakenings, and then—he dropped the bomb. Not a literal one this time, but it hit just as hard.

"Effective immediately, we are activating a global protocol..."

He went on to say that anyone between the ages of 5 and 25 showing signs of abnormal abilities would be detained—for their own safety and for the safety of others. He claimed there were teams already dispatched across major cities. SWAT teams. Scientists. Government officials. They'd be rounding people up and taking them to "special facilities." It was no longer voluntary.

My mom's hand flew to her mouth. Dad stood up. "No, no, no," he muttered.

The president continued. Something about how powers were now being classified. Words like dangerous and non-threatening started getting tossed around. And then, for the first time, the names. Repian. Crepian. Bots.

That was when it really hit me. They had a system now. Labels. Boxes to shove us in.

The internet lost its mind. Twitter was nothing but live videos of people being taken from their homes. TikTok had clips of kids crying, shouting as men in black gear dragged them into vans. Instagram pages were full of teens showing off their abilities—some proudly, others desperately trying to prove they were harmless.

At school, nobody talked about anything else. Kids whispered in the hallways, eyes darting around. One girl swore she saw her neighbor disappear right off their front porch. A boy in my science class showed us how he could float pencils with his mind. Another kid ran across the football field in five seconds flat. Some of them were excited. Most were terrified.

But it wasn't just kids reacting. Parents were protesting outside government buildings. Some held signs that said "Protect Our Children," while others were throwing things, screaming, fighting with officers. Riots broke out in a few cities. I saw videos of buildings on fire. Storefronts smashed. The streets looked like war zones.

And then the reports started trickling in—quiet ones at first. Leaks. Whispers. Scientists weren't just studying kids in the facilities—they were experimenting on them. One post claimed they were drawing blood, cutting people open. No one could confirm it, but the fear had already set in.

My brothers didn't understand. James was too busy running circles around the living room, literally. And Junior—he solved a Rubik's cube in under ten seconds and asked for another one to "make it harder." I didn't even know we had a second cube.

Meanwhile, Mom and Dad barely slept. They kept the TV on 24/7, flipping through channels, watching updates, checking if our neighborhood had been hit yet. We started keeping the curtains closed. Dad blocked the windows with cardboard.

Every day felt heavier. Like something was building. Like the world we knew was officially gone.

And still, the words echoed in my head.

The announcement