Tanimolu groaned as she pounded the boiled palm kernel pulp, each strike of the pestle echoing her growing frustration. Her back throbbed from the effort, but she didn't stop. She couldn’t stop. Her thoughts were still wandering, trapped within the palace walls.

  She had listened to Tayo. She stayed back like he advised, only because she knew she wouldn’t be allowed in without an official summons. But what he told her wouldn’t leave her alone. It tugged at her, stirred her imagination. Should she sneak in? Should she send word to Adewale?

  He wouldn’t ignore her, at least, that’s what she believed. But he was avoiding her. And that hurt more than she cared to admit.

  “Why?” pound

  “Why didn’t he come here?” pound, pound

  “Is it because of that night? The kiss?” pound, pound

  “We shared something, and now he’s distant.” crack shatter

  Tanimolu froze. The mortar lay broken at her feet, shattered into uneven pieces, the palm kernel pulp scattered and mixed with the red earth. She stared at it blankly. She should pick it up. She should be afraid of her mother’s wrath.

  But all she could see were pieces of herself. Fragments she didn’t know how to gather.

  She didn’t even think she had the strength to break the mortar. It was sturdy, reliable. Just like she had been. Or thought she had been.

  Finally, she knelt and began to scoop up what she could salvage, carefully separating the pulp from the dirt. She needed to erase the evidence of her mistake, of two mistakes, really: breaking her mother’s treasured mortar and wasting hours’ worth of work.

  Her shoulders ached again, the same dull, burning pain that always followed the dreams. The ones of deep water and golden thrones. Today just wasn’t her day. Her eyes stung with unshed tears. Maybe she was overthinking it. Maybe Adewale needed space. She didn’t want to be clingy.

  She just missed him.

  The red mix of pulp and sand sparked a memory, one buried deep but always near. Eleven years ago. They were both ten. She was carrying mashed kernel seeds, heading to the hut where her mother made her favorite soups. She hadn’t seen him coming. The bump sent her to the ground, pulp flying everywhere. She had looked up, ready to curse the careless stranger until she met his eyes. Forest green. Wide with panic.

  His skin was warm like caramel. His nervous smile, too sweet to stay angry at.

  He bent first to help her clean the mess. She followed. He kept apologizing, and when their hands stilled, he looked at her, really looked. She had to say “hi” just to stop the fluttering in her chest. He smiled, and the world slowed.

  “You have a beautiful smile,” he said.

  And she forgot how to breathe.

  That was the beginning. Her first friend. Her first love.

  And three weeks ago… her first kiss.

  The rushed sound of footsteps, familiar and urgent, halted Tanimolu in her tracks. She scrambled to her feet, evidence still in hand, and muttered a prayer that her death would be swift and painless. Her mother came into view, with Yemike not far behind. But instead of fury, her mother wore the widest smile Tanimolu hadn’t seen in a long time, her teeth hung like white drapes around her lips. It startled her. It startled Yemike too.

  But the smile melted as her mother’s eyes fell on the red mess in Tanimolu’s hands and the shattered mortar at her feet. The entire compound looked like a battleground. She stormed forward, her rage winding up in each clenched fist.

  Tanimolu instinctively began to retreat, hoping to reduce the momentum of the swing she knew was coming. Yemike, sensing the rising storm, rushed in and threw her slender frame in front of Tanimolu, shielding her like a wall of silk.

  “Mama, ? j????, ? má bínú. Mother, please don’t be angry,” Yemike pleaded, her voice soft, laced with worry, and gentle enough that even the wind paused to listen.

  Tanimolu took the opportunity and dropped to her knees beside her sister, her head bowed low, still clutching the crushed palm kernel pulp. She couldn’t throw it away now. She had to follow this through.

  “? j????, ? má bínú sí mi. Please don’t be mad at me,” she began, voice trembling. “I didn’t mean to... The mortar just broke while I was pounding the pulp, as you instructed. I swear, I didn’t do it on purpose.”

  She bowed even lower, hoping her sincerity would find its way to her mother’s heart.

  At the mention of the mortar, Mama Tani’s eyes flicked to the wreckage. It was truly shattered. And yet, Tanimolu didn’t possess the strength to break a mortar crafted from the strongest tree in Ajinorun, one carved by Baba Faremu, the finest woodsman in town. Something wasn’t adding up.

  Still, Mama Tani shelved her rage. Not today. Not after the kind of news she had just received. The kind that could change everything for them. She eyed Tani suspiciously, storing the moment away for later.

  “Stand up,” she said sharply. “We’ll deal with this later. Right now, we’re going to the palace. Hurry.”

  Her mother’s words jolted Tanimolu backward, nearly throwing her off balance. As she staggered, an arm, slender and steady, reached out to her. It was Yemike’s.

  Tanimolu looked up, meeting the same ever-present smile that had etched itself permanently onto Yemike’s face. A smile that always reminded her of Adewale’s, soft and brilliant.

  Yemike’s skin carried the soft glow of dawn, warm, radiant, and just out of reach. Her hair flowed like dark silk, trailing down her back and brushing her waist, dancing with each whisper of wind. Around her waist, colored beads clinked quietly, humming in rhythm with her every step. Her eyes held the sky’s memory on the day she was born, gold as the sun, rain-laced and beautiful in a taunting way. Her face was oval, sculpted with precision, like the sacred carvings of Yemoja in the shrine, divine, delicate, deliberate. And her lips… full, red, as though they had been kissed by the spirit of desire itself.

  Yemike was beautiful. A beauty Tanimolu could not bear.

  She was everyone’s sun by day and moon by night. She would ask, and it would be hers. She would desire, and even the heavens would listen. And worst of all, she was kind. Too kind. So kind, it made the bitterness inside Tanimolu burn hotter. Because her kindness didn’t make her easier to hate. It made it harder.

  Tanimolu ignored Yemike’s outstretched hand and stood on her own. She dusted the sand off her wrapper and bowed before her mother, quietly thanking her for the pardon.

  Mama Tani eyed her up and down, then kissed her teeth long and loud before turning her full attention to her sun, Yemike. Her grin returned, wide and toothy.

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  “We’ve been summoned by the court to meet the king,” she announced, beaming as she turned to Yemike.

  “Yemike, the king has summoned our family because of you, ?m? Yemoja mi, child of blessing. You’ve brought honour to our home!”

  Mama Tani clutched Yemike’s hands in excitement, but Yemike only stared back, bewildered.

  “Why am I being summoned? What does the king want with me?” she asked, her voice slightly laced with fear.

  Her mother chuckled lightly, running a gentle hand through Yemike’s hair. “Don’t be afraid, my dear. The messenger said it is with great favour that you are to be presented before the king.”

  Mama Tani’s eyes lit up as she replayed the moment in her mind. She had already imagined it, the king summoning Yemike to be presented before Prince Ay??tánná, the heir of Ajinorun. Who else could be more fitting to stand by his side than her daughter, born of blessing? The messenger had hinted that the favour would change their lives forever. She could already taste it: she was about to become the mother of a queen.

  Tanimolu stood off to the side, listening, confused. Her mother’s words didn’t make sense. She wanted to ask why the king had summoned them, to demand more details, but she knew better than to speak out of turn. Instead, she glanced at Yemike, whose expression had turned vacant, lost in thought, in fear, or maybe something else. And then a thought crossed her mind, a dangerous one, a hopeful one.

  Maybe the summons would bring her closer to Adewale.

  Maybe the gods had heard the unspoken pleadings of her heart. Maybe, just maybe, they had chosen to favour her too.

  But the doubt lingered like a shadow. Something didn’t feel right.

  The palace her thoughts had once wandered toward with desire and longing now felt like a trap... a slaughterhouse dressed in gold.

  They headed towards the palace in hurried paces, with Tanimolu tagging closely behind. The townspeople’s gazes carried a mix of envy and pride. Tanimolu could almost tell who envied and who prided, it danced around them in colours that she could sometimes see. They approached the palace gate and introduced themselves to the guards, who, upon verifying their identities, let them in, some stealing glances at Tani. A guard had gone ahead to assume she was their maid and should stay behind until her mother laughed lightly about it and introduced her as her child. Tani swore she could see the look of confusion on the guard's face as his gaze danced to and fro between her and Yemike.

  ………..

  The large doors to the king’s court creaked open, and a man in deep indigo aso-òkè stepped forward. His voice rang through the marble and mud-tiled chambers like a talking drum, commanding, reverent, laced with rhythm. He was the Gbonka, the palace herald, the one whose duty it was to speak before the King.

  He slammed his tall staff three times on the stone floor, the clang echoing into silence. Then he began:

  “?ba Ajinorun, ?m? àtàtà, ?m? tí òrì?à yan!

  Oorun kékeré il?? ?ba!

  àyànm?? rere tí orí yàn sípò alákòóso.

  ?m? aráyé tí ?run gbé wá!

  Kí ìj?ba r? má bàj??,

  Kí ilé r? kún fún wúrà àti ?lá,

  Kí àw?n ènìyàn r? fi irú r? ?e àp??r? rere títí ayérayé.”

  “King of Ajinorun, child of destiny, chosen of the orisha!

  Little sun that warms the empire!

  Favoured one whose head was anointed with the oils of leadership.

  Child of men sent from the heavens!

  May your reign never falter,

  May your house overflow with gold and honour,

  May your people forever revere your goodness.”

  He bowed deeply, and as he rose, he motioned toward the great doors behind him. “The family summoned to the court now seeks the audience of Kabiyesi.”

  The grand doors parted fully, spilling light into the massive hall.

  Tanimolu stepped in behind her mother and Yemike, eyes wide.

  The King's court was more magnificent than she had imagined. The walls were carved with swirling adéj? patterns, symbols of water, sun, and wind, telling ancient stories of how Ajinorun was founded by a god who once walked the skies. Gold-threaded tapestries draped the walls. Tall pillars stood like silent guards, their eyes made of polished stones that seemed to watch all who passed.

  Incense danced through the air, rich with the scent of myrrh, cinnamon, and the faint smell of bitter kola, and the floor beneath her feet shimmered faintly with dusted bronze and powdered chalk. Courtiers lined the hall, some dressed in silk robes, others in grand agbada, and the women in almost ceiling-high geles, all with necks slightly bowed, waiting on the king’s next breath.

  Then her gaze lifted, pulled towards the throne.

  Her breath hitched. There it was.

  The same throne from her dream.

  There could be no mistake. She had seen this exact gold... the glow, the light that almost made it hard to look straight at it, the overwhelming pull it had on her. Even now, her knees wobbled under the weight of recognition, her shoulder flared with pain.

  She gripped the edge of her wrapper to steady herself. Her heart pounded. She couldn’t shake the feeling that something deeper was at play. Her mother nudged her lightly forward, which kicked her out of her reverie briefly as they all bowed for the king.

  The King, Oba Ar??mu ?àngódáre, waved his hand, signaling them and the other courtiers out of their bows. Then he leaned back and studied the three women standing before him.

  With a single glance, he knew who Yemike was, there was no mistaking her. He understood instantly why Adewale had asked for her hand.

  He chuckled to himself. Men. Such vain creatures.

  As he wrestled with his own greed, his mind turned, she would make a fine sixth wife... or perhaps a worthy bride for his son, Prince Ay??tánná.

  But Adewale had beaten him to her. And for that, he had earned the king's respect.

  Oba Ar??mu raised his hand again, summoning Adewale and the Prince. They stepped forward, taking their places beside him.

  Tanimolu could feel her breath hitch. Her chest rose sharply, as if air had suddenly become scarce. She was certain the entire court could hear her pounding heart. Adewale looked better than she remembered, sharper, taller, kissed by more grace than ever before. But her admiration tangled itself with dread.

  The King began to speak.

  “We are gathered here today because the one who was not born of me, but born to me, has made me proud. He has proven himself worthy of the gods' blessings. A word came through me, and through him, the word was fulfilled.”

  He gestured for Adewale to step forward. Adewale knelt, head bowed in reverence.

  Then the Royal Akéwì, Baba ?j?, stepped forward, carrying a calabash filled with bright red palm oil. Baba ?j?, blind but sharp-tongued, was a man known to remember everything the palace wished forgotten. Some said he held more power than even the chief advisors, speaking truths wrapped in riddles and secrets.

  Though sightless, his head turned as if guided by some other sense, and his gaze landed on Tanimolu. She stiffened. It was as though he could see through her. Something moved in that moment, but no one else seemed to notice.

  Then came the unexpected.

  The King’s voice rang out again.

  “Yemike, my child, come forward.”

  Tanimolu’s heart dropped. Her mother wore the same expression, confusion layered over concern.

  As if sensing Yemike’s hesitation, the King’s voice grew firmer, heavier.

  “Yemike, ?m? Yemoja, come forward.”

  Yemike stepped forward, her feet moving as if no longer her own. Baba ?j? beckoned her to kneel, placing her beside Adewale, still holding the calabash.

  The King declared:

  “Adewale has declared, before this court and before the gods, his desire to marry Yemike. And today, the gods have shown their favour.”

  “Yemike, ?m? Labake Onii...child of Labake Oni

  Before the gods, in honour of the crown and the blessings of this land, I present you to Adewale as his chosen bride.”

  Tanimolu gasped. Loudly. Too loudly.

  Heads turned.

  Her body grew cold.

  Her mind spiraled.

  Suddenly, water. She saw flashes of it, wild, crashing waves pounding against an invisible wall. It was like they were inside her head, seeking escape.

  She gripped her temples. The pounding intensified. The water pushed harder. The wall was breaking.

  And then, it broke.

  Darkness swallowed her whole.