The funeral pyre of King Akor still smoldered beyond the palace walls, sending tendrils of smoke curling into the cold dawn. But inside the Stone Court of Oloran, the air had thickened into something poisonous—grief mixed with anticipation, a tension so sharp it could be cut with a sword. Beneath it slithered something colder, sharper: an unseen predator waiting for blood, for opportunity, for a breach in loyalty.
King Oran, newly crowned, sat upon the Lion-Throne. The sacred metal felt heavier than iron, as if the ancestors themselves pressed their judgment into his shoulders. His eyes, storm-dark and unyielding, swept over the hall with the precision of a hawk hunting the tiniest movement. Beside him, Queen Nkemesit's hands lay folded, her posture graceful, yet taut with awareness. Every flicker of movement—the whisper of silk, the murmur of a guard—reached her as if through water. She was calm, a living shadow tethered to every heartbeat in the room, every breath that hinted at treachery.
And then there was Nkema.
The new Queen-Consort radiated dangerous beauty. Flame and venom, all at once. Her presence poisoned the throne room without a word. When Oran's gaze fell upon her, she leaned forward, offering a delicate smile, a tilt of her head, a brush of her hand across the ceremonial table. Yet his eyes recoiled, instinctively, like one touching a blade freshly forged and still too hot. Nkema's gaze flickered with something unspoken—desire, yes, but darker: obsession, envy, and an unquenchable hunger for what was denied her.
Every glance Oran ignored fed Nkema's fire, thickening it into a lethal anticipation that coiled within her like a serpent ready to strike. She could feel the ancient spellwork of her mother, Isalena, hum beneath her skin, whispering of power forbidden, a path never talked about.
The Whisper of Deception
That evening, Nkema confronted her husband, Prince Kelan, in their private chamber. Candles flickered against the high walls, casting elongated shadows that danced like specters.
Kelan's voice trembled. "Nkema… you must stop. You cannot—"
"No," she whispered, turning her face away so he could not see the storm gathering in her eyes. "Not until you take the throne that should have been yours."
Her words slid like sweet poison. Kelan flinched—not because they held truth, but because they did not. Every force in Oloran—the gods, the Council, the spirits bound to the Lion-Throne—had declared Oran the rightful king. After him, the unborn child resting in Nkemesit's womb would inherit all.
Nkema's weapon was not ambition alone. It was manipulation, honed to a razor's edge against Kelan's gentle heart.
Kelan pleaded, voice breaking. "It would be suicide. Not for power, not for you, not for anything."
Nkema smiled faintly, almost pityingly. She ended her campaign, retreating into stillness. But her silence was not surrender—it was the quiet before a storm, the waiting coiled predator, the calm of a blade poised to fall.
The Foreign Prince
Days later, a foreign prince arrived to pay homage. Young, charismatic, and naïve, he exuded the kind of charm that believed all power could be negotiated, all hearts could be swayed.
Nkema watched him, her eyes flicking with calculated interest. Her fingers brushed lightly against her robes, weaving subtle enchantments into the air. A whisper into his mind, guiding his gaze, pulling him closer, enticing him into a space where caution should have ruled.
And then she screamed.
The court exploded into chaos. Elders shouted, guards raised their spears, and the foreign prince stumbled, wide-eyed, caught between fear and fascination. Execution was demanded on the spot. His homeland would respond with war, they warned. Spears gleamed. Armies marched. Kingdoms prepared for blood.
But within the palace, another war had already begun. Nkema moved through shadows like a predator, her eyes alight with the thrill of forbidden power. Every glance, every word, every subtle motion of her body in the court was designed to shift fate itself.
The Battlefield Betrayal
On the battlefield, King Oran fought with the fury of a god. Steel sang through the air, carving death with every swing. His armor was battered, his shield nicked and cracked, but his resolve was iron. He searched the horizon for Nkemesit's spirit, the cool, protective presence that always followed him into battle like morning rain on parched soil.
She did not come.
Instead, a whirlwind of dust erupted beside him. A figure took form—Nkema. Her magic stung like sand and cold iron. The world blurred. Oran roared her name, realization dawning too late: the betrayal hollowed her into something monstrous.
Steel clashed, sparks flew. Enemy soldiers fell in arcs of fire and frost, but the Lion-King's strength could not withstand the magical assault that clouded his mind, burned his senses, and blinded him to danger. A blade found his heart.
He fell.
Back in the palace, Nkemesit gasped as her ritual shattered. Pain slammed into her chest, as if her spirit had been violently yanked back from the battlefield. She stumbled, understanding immediately: Nkema had sabotaged her.
The Commander's final message arrived moments later:
"Prince Kelan must take command."
The Immortal Queen Rises
Pale and trembling, Kelan was dragged into the throne room. The Crown of Oloran rested on a velvet cushion, glowing faintly under the torchlight. Nkemesit burst in, her breath ragged, heart pounding. She could feel it—something terrible was coming.
But it was too late.
The Crown touched Kelan's head. A bolt of blue-white lightning tore through the ceiling, divine judgment with no mercy. Kelan crumpled, dead before he hit the floor. The throne had rejected him.
Because the throne already knew the truth: the true heir grew inside Nkemesit's womb.
Thunder still rattled the shattered windows when Nkema stormed into the chamber where Oran's body lay. She looked once at the fallen king, the man who had always scorned her ambition. Then her hands moved with divine precision. She tore open his chest.
Her hands were steady. Her hunger was ancient. She devoured the king's heart while it was still warm.
Power surged. Cold. Immense. Eternal.
Nkema returned to the throne room, her eyes blazing like a goddess released from a tomb. She seized the smoking crown from Kelan's burnt hair and placed it upon her own head.
The sky obeyed immediately. Thunder rolled, lightning split the air, and darkness swallowed the palace whole. Then—silence.
Nkema had transformed. Her beauty sharpened into something unearthly. Her presence was magnetic, terrifying, and absolute. She was no longer mortal.
The Chief Priest cried, "She has eaten the heart of a king! We are doomed!"
Nkema turned toward Nkemesit, her final obstacle.
But Chief Priest Mazi stood firm. Summoning every drop of sacred power left in his aging bones, he wrapped Nkemesit and himself in a brilliant dome of spirit-light. His chant shook the cracked ceiling. The dome exploded upward—and both vanished into the sky, carried away by ancient magic.
Nkema stood alone in the ruined throne room. Her reign had begun.
Her lips curved in a faint, predatory smile. Desire, power, immortality—the world would bow. And the River Omu would watch it all.