RINCESS ADJOA.
Silence did not calm Princess Adjoa.
It sharpened her.
The palace had entered that dangerous hour between night and morning—when guards grew weary, when torches burned low, when secrets believed themselves safe simply because darkness still lingered. It was the hour when mistakes exhaled, convinced they had survived the night.
Adjoa stood at the tall window of her chamber, fingers resting lightly on the carved wood, watching the pale sky bleed slowly into dawn. The horizon was neither dark nor bright—just uncertain.
Below, the inner courtyard lay still. Too still.
No birds greeted the morning. No servants whispered as they passed. Only footsteps echoed faintly across stone—measured, deliberate, unfamiliar. Movement where there should have been routine.
The erasure was complete.
At least, it was meant to be.
She closed her eyes and counted her breaths, steadying herself.
One.
Two.
Three.
If anything had survived the purge, she would feel it.
She always did.
A soft knock came at the door.
Not the confident knock of a servant carrying instructions.
Not the respectful knock of a guard on duty.
This knock hesitated.
Adjoa opened the door herself.
Kwame Bediako stood in the corridor, eyes bloodshot, robe rumpled as though he had dressed in the dark. His hands trembled slightly, fingers twisting into the fabric at his sides. Fear had carved itself into his face.
Her heart dropped.
"You came too early," she said quietly.
"I couldn't wait," Kwame whispered. "Princess… something is wrong."
The words struck like ice water against her spine.
She stepped aside at once. "Inside. Now."
He entered quickly, shutting the door behind him, as though the walls themselves might overhear. His breathing was uneven, rushed.
"We destroyed everything," he said, speaking fast, desperate. "Every ledger. Every registry. Every donor slip. I watched the ink bleed into the water. I scattered the pulp myself. There is nothing left. I swear it."
Adjoa studied him closely, her expression unreadable.
"But," she said.
Kwame swallowed.
"But the King has sent someone."
Her chest tightened, though her face remained composed.
"Who?" she asked.
"A junior council verifier," he replied. "Not one of the usual men. A woman. Sharp eyes. Too sharp. She arrived at Nyame Nhyira just after sunrise."
Adjoa turned slowly back toward the window.
The Supreme King never moved first.
He sent others to test the ground, to see which lies collapsed under their own weight.
"What did she ask?" Adjoa said.
Kwame hesitated.
Too long.
"What did she ask?" Adjoa repeated, her voice sharpening like drawn steel.
"She didn't ask about Madam Esi Nyarko," he admitted. "Not directly."
Adjoa's fingers curled against the window ledge.
"Then what?"
"She asked about the children."
The room felt suddenly smaller, as though the walls had shifted inward.
"Which children?"
"All of them," Kwame said hoarsely. "Numbers. Ages. Intake dates. Transfers. She cross-checked them against palace donation cycles. Grain deliveries. Medical disbursements."
Adjoa closed her eyes.
Numbers always betrayed lies.
Paper could burn.
Memories could be silenced.
But numbers… numbers waited patiently.
"And?" she asked.
Kwame's voice dropped to a whisper. "One child doesn't align."
The words landed heavily between them.
Final.
"Which child?" Adjoa asked.
Kwame lifted his head and met her gaze.
"Akosua."
For a moment, Adjoa did not breathe.
The palace, the dawn, the waiting world—all of it froze.
Then the moment passed, and the world steadied beneath her feet.
"Explain," she said calmly, though her pulse roared in her ears.
Kwame swallowed. "During a three-month gap—when no children were officially admitted—Akosua's feeding records appear."
Adjoa's jaw tightened.
Feeding records.
The one thing no matron ever neglected. The one habit even the most loyal hands could not unlearn.
"She eats," Kwame continued weakly. "Someone logged her meals. Daily. Carefully. As if she mattered."
Of course she did.
"She was never registered," Adjoa said quietly.
"No," Kwame agreed. "But she was fed."
Silence fell, thick and suffocating.
Then Adjoa spoke, her voice low, controlled, lethal.
"Who logged the meals?"
Kwame shook his head. "The pages are unsigned. But the handwriting—"
He stopped.
Adjoa did not need him to finish.
Madam Esi Nyarko.
A woman erased from records, but not from habit.
A caretaker who believed care itself was a form of resistance.
"Where is the verifier now?" Adjoa asked.
"She returned to the palace to cross-check something," Kwame replied. "But she said she would come back."
Promised.
"She will not," Adjoa said.
Kwame's eyes widened. "Princess?"
"She will not return to Nyame Nhyira," Adjoa repeated evenly. "If she does, then the King already knows."
Kwame sank into a chair, covering his face with his hands. "We failed."
"No," Adjoa snapped. "We slipped."
There was a difference.
And slips could still be corrected.
"When she reports," Adjoa continued, pacing slowly, "she will speak of an inconsistency. Not a crime. That buys us hours."
"And Akosua?" Kwame whispered.
Something tightened painfully in Adjoa's chest.
"She becomes invisible," she said. "Immediately."
"She can't stay there."
"She won't," Adjoa replied. "You will remove her quietly. No goodbyes. No explanations. Take her to the old western storage house beyond the cocoa fields."
"That place is abandoned."
"Exactly."
The knock came again.
Harder.
Both of them froze.
"Princess Adjoa," a servant called through the door. "The Supreme King requests your presence."
Now.
The hunt had caught a scent.
"Go," Adjoa told Kwame. "Wait for my word."
Fear followed him out like a shadow.
The Supreme King stood beside the council table, holding a single sheet of paper.
One.
That was worse than stacks.
"This child," he said calmly, tapping the page, "was fed before she officially existed."
"Paperwork often lags behind reality," Adjoa replied smoothly.
"But children do not," the King said softly.
"Bring the child."
Adjoa met his gaze without flinching.
"That inconsistency," she said, "falls under my authority."
The King's eyes narrowed.
"If you pursue it directly," Adjoa continued, her voice steady, "you will disturb matters deliberately buried—for the stability of this realm."
A long pause followed.
Then the King smiled.
"Very well," he said. "Then we will summon everyone who ever fed her."
Kwame Bediako.
Every caregiver.
Every silent witness.
"You have until sunset," the King added. "After that, silence will no longer protect you."
Outside the council chamber, Adjoa did not slow her steps.
Somewhere beyond the palace walls, a child was already being carried into hiding.
This was no longer about erasing the past.
It was about outrunning the future.
And the Supreme King was already counting her steps.