Ahia woke up to the smell of silence.
It wasn't the silence of the grave, nor the oppressive silence of the Dildillaac. It was a rich, heavy silence, smelling of lavender and ozone.
She sat up. Her body felt light—lighter than it had in years. The crushing cold of the Iku was gone, scrubbed clean from her Moea by the high-tier healing arts. She flexed her fingers. No pain. No scars. It was as if the nightmare in the sky had never happened.
Except for the man sleeping in the chair beside her bed.
Libaax Akoma looked remarkably human when he was asleep. His head was tipped back against the wall, his arms crossed over his chest. The imposing spherical Afro was slightly flattened on one side, and the regal blue Jalabiya was wrinkled and stained with dust.
Ahia watched him for a moment. Her Makoma hummed in her chest—a steady, warm rhythm. The Ifunanya bond was quiet now, content.
"You are staring," Libaax murmured, his eyes still closed.
Ahia jumped slightly. "I thought you were asleep."
"A King never truly sleeps," Libaax said, opening his eyes. They were tired, the blue Aura dimmed to a gentle ember. He straightened up, wincing slightly as his stiff muscles protested. "How do you feel?"
"Clean," Ahia said, looking at her hands. "New. I... I shouldn't be here, Libaax. This room... the Ase in here is too thick. It's meant for the High Table."
"You are here because I commanded it," Libaax said softly. He leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees. "The physicians could not treat you because of your status. The Nommo scripts of the infirmary rejected a Household-level signature."
Ahia froze. She knew the laws. "Then how am I alive?"
Libaax held her gaze. "I elevated you."
The air in the room seemed to drop a few degrees.
"I declared you a Ward of the Continental House," Libaax explained, his voice steady. "Legally, you are no longer Ahia Senan of the Outer Districts. You are Ahia Senan of the Final Palace. You are under my direct protection."
Ahia stared at him, her mouth opening but no sound coming out.
To be a Ward was not just a title. It was a severance. It meant she was cut off from her family line, her history, her simple life as a Manomi. She had been dug up from her soil and repotted in the King's garden without her consent.
"You... you stole my life," she whispered.
"I saved your life," Libaax corrected, though there was a shadow of guilt in his expression.
"You made me a political prisoner in a gilded cage!" Ahia's voice rose, her Green Aura flaring with a sudden spike of distress. "I can never go back to the ranch, can I? I can never walk the streets as a free woman again. Every move I make will be watched by the High Table."
Libaax reached out, covering her hand with his. His skin was warm, grounding.
"You are right," he admitted. "You cannot go back. But you are not a prisoner, Senan."
He squeezed her hand.
"The world will try to crush us for this," Libaax said intensely. "But I would burn the Nommo scripts a thousand times over before I let them take you."
Ahia looked at their joined hands—the onyx darkness of his skin against the chocolate tone of hers. The fear was still there, yes. But beneath it was the Ifunanya. He had upended the world for her.
"Then teach me," Ahia whispered, gripping his hand back. "If I am to live in this storm, Libaax... teach me how to not be blown away."
The Chamber of Pillars
The mood in the High Table's private meeting room was not just tense; it was lethal.
Vhuthu Hiwot sat at the head of the obsidian table. A thick bandage was wrapped around her head, covering the spiritual concussion she had sustained from the King's Aura blast. Her Orange Aura flickered with a headache-inducing strobe effect.
"He has gone rogue," Vhuthu hissed, slamming a data slate onto the table. "He physically assaulted a Council member. He mobilized the Jeshilaanga without a war vote. And now... this."
She gestured to the holographic display in the center of the table. It showed the official registry update: Ahia Senan. Status: Continental Ward.
"It is a legal nightmare," Alem Amari sighed, rubbing his temples. The Albino judge looked exhausted. "The Home-Kings are rioting on the local networks. They say the Servitor Supreme has violated the sanctity of the Bottom-Up system. If the King can just pluck a daughter from a household whenever he pleases, then no man is truly King of his own home."
"He didn't do it because he pleased," Azure Oba rumbled from the corner. The giant warrior was polishing his tusk artifact, Elao with a handkerchief. He looked surprisingly cheerful. "He did it because the girl was dying.
Because he is in love hahaha."
"Love is not a policy!" Vhuthu snapped. "Love does not fly gunships into the upper atmosphere! This is instability, Azure. The Mufarikha are already spinning this. They are saying the King is ruled by his passions, not by Ubuntu."
"He defeated a Kifofirist Lord," Azure countered, pointing the tusk at her. "He reminded the Dildillaac why they fear the light. The military morale is higher than it has been in decades. The soldiers saw their King fight. Fighting alongside them."
"And the civilians saw their King break the law," Vhuthu shot back.
She stood up, pacing the room.
"We cannot undo the elevation," she admitted bitterly. "If we revoke her status now, she dies of social exclusion, and the King burns the palace down. We are stuck with political Iku"
"So, what is the play?" Agyenim Davu, the Authority on Propaganda asked, checking his reflection in a spoon. "Do we paint her as a tragic heroine? A secret royalty lost at birth?"
"No lies," Vhuthu said cold. "The King hates lies."
She turned to face the window, looking toward the Gilded Ward.
"If she is to be a Ward of the Continental House," Vhuthu said, a cruel smile touching her lips, "then she must be worthy of the House. We will not reject her. We will embrace her with open hands."
She turned back to the table.
"We will subject her to the Trials of the Dapabie," Vhuthu announced. "We will test her mental fortitude, her etiquette, her understanding of Nommo. We will pressure-cook this little gardener until she either turns into a diamond... or she cracks and begs to be sent back to the mud."
Alem Amari frowned. "The Trials are grueling, Vhuthu. Even nobles struggle with them."
"She has the King's favor," Vhuthu said, touching her bandaged head. "Let us see if that is enough to survive the court."