Echoes In The Throne Room

The kingdom had been plunged into a darkness so thick it felt like cloth pressed over the eyes. It wasn't just night—it was absence. Even the stars had refused to show up.

Inside the palace, royal maids scurried in all directions like rats in a burning hut, trying to relight the hundreds of oil lamps scattered through the corridors. Yet no flame caught easily. Every wick they touched sputtered and died, as though the darkness devoured fire itself.

In his bedchamber, the King of Amaaku stood still as his attendants dressed him in silence. His mind churned, a tempest of dread and confusion. Clad in richly swaddled Ankara robes, ceremonial beads, and the anklets of his lineage, he exhaled long and slow.

"Why now? Why in my reign? Have the gods chosen to mock me?"

He winced, the thought itself like a knife. He reached for the plain carved mask that matched his regalia—an ancestral mask worn only in moments of divine summons. Once it settled over his face, the King lifted the royal fan into his left hand and nodded. It was time.

His guards stiffened as he emerged, flanking him on both sides with the trained stillness of blooded warriors. Their silent procession cut through the uncertain corridors like a whisper through mourning cloth, heading for Obieze—the throne hall, where voices had already risen.

In the throne room, the Council of Elders were mid-argument, their voices clashing like cymbals. At the center of it all, unmoved, sat Ezemmuo—the Chief Priest—cross-legged on his tattered mat of goat hide, facing away from the throne.

The king's arrival was swift and commanding.

"IGWEEEEEE!" the elders chorused in unison.

He acknowledged them with a wave of the fan, his gaze moving immediately to the terrifying figure before him.

Ezemmuo was a sight that unsettled even the bravest men. His ribs jutted sharply beneath skin inked with shifting tattoos—ancient glyphs and sacred sigils that sometimes seemed to shimmer and move of their own accord. He was ageless. Whispered stories claimed he had outlived three Amadikes before the present king. Others said he conversed with gods, walked between realms, and had once suspended three petty thieves in the air for three days as punishment for their crimes. 

The King bowed slightly in respect.

"Ezemmuo, mouthpiece and living spirit of our gods. I greet you."

But the priest did not return pleasantries.

 "Your Majesty," he began, his voice low and rumbling like distant thunder, "this is no time for ceremony. Our kingdom is on fire."

The king jolted. For a moment, he thought he meant literal fire. He instinctively imagined the palace in flames, but quickly composed himself.

 "Speak then," the king said, settling into his seat. "What is it that you've seen?"

Before Ezemmuo could answer, Chief Ukoha—infamous for his interruptions—cut in.

 "Yes, what are the gods saying about the strange weather and the missing children?"

 "Will you shut your mouth!" barked Chief Eze, the Onowu, pounding his staff. "Is this the time for foolish questions?"

"Who are you calling foolish?" Ukoha hissed, adjusting his red cap. "I was a chief when your mother still had no milk to feed you!"

Murmurs rippled through the elders. The king lifted his fan in a call for silence.

 "Enough. We waste time."

Ezemmuo sighed. Slowly, he stretched his gaunt frame, bones cracking loudly in the stillness.

"These are not the works of our gods," he said gravely. "At least, not the gods we know."

The air changed. Even the shadows in the corners seemed to pause.

"What do you mean?" the king asked cautiously.

The priest finally turned. His eyes, ink-black and gleaming, pinned the monarch like a spear.

 "Your Majesty... I say this with care: the gods appear to have retreated. Their auras no longer linger in the shrines. The covens have fallen silent. It is as though the heavens have closed their eyes."

A shudder passed through the room. The king, gripping the arm of his throne, whispered:

 "You mean... they've fled?"

 "Tread lightly," Ezemmuo growled. "Fled is not the word. But they are... absent."

Chief Eze leaned forward. "Then who is behind this darkness? This rain that won't stop? The whispers in the wind?"

Ezemmuo pulled out a bundle of dyed cowries from his raffia satchel. With reverent motion, he cast them onto the mat. His lips moved in silent incantations. Again. And again. The cowries shifted like restless bones.

At last, he looked up.

 "This morning, two great entities crossed into the physical realm. They were not summoned. They came of their own will."

The room exploded in murmurs. The Onowu's staff slammed again.

"Where? What part of the kingdom?"

 "They appeared," the priest said slowly, "in the home of a man named... Amanse."

That name brought more than murmurs—it brought silence.

Chief Eze's eyes widened. "Amanse? The boy who stammers? The one who lives alone beyond the western farmsteads?"

The king slowly rose from his seat, eyes narrowing behind the mask.

 "A... stammerer?"

"You ask like that disqualifies him," Ezemmuo said dryly. "People underestimate those whom the gods have scarred. The deformed, the mad, the mute, the forgotten. But those same gods often bless them with sight, strength, or destiny."

The king didn't reply. He was still trying to grasp it all.

> "The presence I felt," Ezemmuo continued, "was not mundane. One of those masquerades was Nwangele itself. And the other... a masquerade I dare not name without consequence."

He paused, then stood.

"Your Majesty, I urge you: send for Amanse. He carries something meant for your ears. I must prepare for what lies ahead."

He rolled up his mat in one fluid motion, and with a flash of blinding light—vanished.

A gasp rippled through the council. Chief Ukoha fell off his stool with a grunt.

The king stood frozen, staring at the empty space. Then, shaking off his daze, he barked orders to his captain of the guard.

 "Find this Amanse. Bring him. If he resists, carry him. By any means necessary."

---

Meanwhile, behind a carved doorway draped with hanging beads, Ozoba, the king's second wife, leaned against the wall.

She had heard everything.

A slow, wicked smile crept across her face.

And then, like a shadow, she vanished down the corridor toward her private chambers.