When blood speaks, thrones listen
SUPREME KING POV
The bells had stopped ringing, but the palace was far from quiet.
Their echo still clung to the walls—slithering through corridors, settling into stone, pressing against the chest like a warning that refused to fade. The Supreme Palace had heard many alarms over the years. None like this.
I stood at the center of the Great Hall, hands clasped behind my back, staring at the dark stain on the polished marble floor.
Blood.
A Supreme Guard's blood.
Spilled on a royal road. Under my protection.
That alone was an offense grave enough to summon war.
But it was not the blood that troubled me most.
It was the other blood.
The one found mixed with dust and gravel at the attack site. Thinner. Lighter. Carelessly wiped, as though whoever bled had not realized its weight.
Akosua had been wounded.
Not gravely. Not enough to weaken her body.
Enough to mark the earth.
I felt it long before the report reached me. A tightening in my chest. A pull, old and familiar, like a memory refusing to stay buried. The land had reacted. And the land only reacts to what it recognizes.
I turned as Akosua was escorted into the hall.
She moved stiffly now, her left arm bound in fresh cloth. A shallow cut, they said. A stray graze during the chaos. Nothing life-threatening.
But blood does not need to threaten life to speak.
Dust clung to her garments. Her face was pale, yet her eyes burned—sharp, furious, alive.
"They took her," she said again, voice hoarse. "They took Maame Abena."
"I know," I replied.
No comfort followed. This was not the hour for it.
Behind her, Princess Adjoa stood composed, her expression carefully schooled into calm. Too calm. But I said nothing.
The elders began to arrive.
One by one, they entered the Great Hall—grey heads crowned with years of wisdom, staffs striking the floor in measured rhythm. Allied kings followed, their whispers heavy with unease.
This was no ordinary council.
A woman had been taken from under my watch.
A Supreme Guard had died.
And blood—royal blood, whether known or not—had touched the soil.
When all were seated, I raised my hand.
Silence fell instantly.
"What occurred today," I began, "was not robbery."
Murmurs rippled through the hall.
"Robbers do not ambush guarded convoys," I continued. "They do not block royal roads. They do not kill trained guards and retreat without looting."
I stepped forward, my voice steady, deliberate.
"This was planned."
The word settled heavily.
An elder rose slowly. "Your Majesty, they targeted a civilian woman. What danger does she pose to warrant such force?"
I met his gaze.
"She poses enough."
Unease spread.
Another king leaned forward. "Then this was defiance against the throne?"
"Yes."
The hall erupted.
Voices collided. Fear dressed itself as logic. Logic tried to outrun dread.
I raised my hand again.
"They wanted us to see them," I said. "They wanted reaction. And they wanted to remind us of something we believed finished."
"What is that?" someone asked.
I looked around the hall, letting the silence stretch.
"That the past still breathes."
A chill passed through them.
I gestured to my captain of guards. "Speak."
He stepped forward and knelt. "Your Majesty, the attackers were disciplined. Military-trained. They did not loot. They did not linger. They took only one person."
Maame Abena Owusu.
The name carried weight now.
"They knew her," he continued. "They called her by name."
A stir followed.
Akosua's breath caught.
I did not look at her.
"Find them," I ordered. "Alive, if possible."
"And if not?" the captain asked carefully.
"Then bring me proof," I said coldly.
The council dragged on, but my thoughts had already moved ahead—tracking patterns, intent, timing.
This was not chaos.
It was choreography.
At sunset, I dismissed them.
Fear followed them out like a shadow.
Only a few remained: Akosua. Princess Adjoa. Trusted guards.
I turned to Adjoa. "You were present."
"Yes, Your Majesty."
"You witnessed the attack."
"Yes."
"Speak."
"They waited for the return journey," she said evenly. "When vigilance softens. They blocked the narrow bend. They knew the schedule."
"Anything else?"
She hesitated—barely.
"They did not touch Akosua," she added. "Not once."
That mattered.
I nodded. "Go. Rest."
She bowed and left.
I turned to Akosua.
"You will remain within the palace," I said.
She straightened. "I want to help."
"You already are," I replied. "Which is why you will stay where I can see you."
Her jaw tightened. "They took her because of me."
"No," I said calmly. "They took her because of what she knows."
Her eyes widened.
I let the silence teach her.
That night, the kingdom searched.
Scouts rode. Borders tightened. Old enemies were questioned. Old alliances stirred uneasily.
And still—
No ransom.
No demand.
No message.
By dawn, I understood.
This was not negotiation.
It was invitation.
I stood alone on the balcony when a messenger arrived, breathless.
"Your Majesty," he said, kneeling hard. "We found something."
"Speak."
"A burnt vehicle near the old quarry."
"And?"
He swallowed. "There was blood inside. And a marking."
My chest tightened. "What marking?"
"The symbol of the Old Covenant."
The air froze.
That mark had not appeared in years. Not since we swore it ended. Not since we buried it with silence and fear.
My gaze drifted back toward the palace—toward where Akosua slept, unaware of how loudly her blood had spoken.
So.
They had chosen to wake it.
"Summon the council again," I said. "And double Akosua's guard."
"Yes, Your Majesty."
As he ran, one truth settled cold and certain in me.
This kidnapping was not the beginning.
It was a declaration.
And whoever stood behind it had just challenged the throne itself.
I welcomed it.
Because when blood calls, kings must answer.
And only one side would survive what followed.