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Firstborn of the Sun

‘Absolutely radiant. Anson has created a captivating, intricate world with characters who will stay with me for a long time. A perfect balance of political machinations and aching romance, wrapped up in a fast-paced, action-packed adventure. I loved it!’

Bea Fitzgerald, author of Girl, Goddess, Queen

‘Rich worldbuilding inspired by Yoruba mythology and a strong cast of characters. This debut fantasy shines as bright as the sun’ L. R. LAM , author of Dragonfall

‘A searing tale of ambition, love and survival . . . This is a wildly imaginative debut which begins an epic story. Our characters are thrown from disaster to disaster until an ending with a twist and a schism that connects the dots all the way back to the beginning. The imagery is exciting, cinematic and gorgeous’ Hannah Kaner, author of Godkiller

‘A dazzling debut, with characters that leap off the page and burrow into your heart. Filled with love, betrayal and questions of loyalty, the twists and turns this story takes will keep you reading late into the night’ Andrea Stewart, author of The Gods Below

‘Fierce, exciting and utterly original, Firstborn of the Sun is an enthralling and epic fantasy, with a beautiful and tender romance at its centre’ Anna Day, author of The Girl Who Grew Wings

‘Epic and gorgeous, Firstborn of the Sun enraptures readers in the rich, complex Kingdom of Oru with intricate magic, fascinating politics, swoony romance and gasp-worthy twists. A radiant debut, not to miss!’ Dhonielle Clayton, author of The Conjurverse series

‘Gorgeously, powerfully written, with wonderful characters and intricate, luxuriant worldbuilding – altogether really quite exceptional. I foresee it becoming a beloved classic amongst fantasy readers’ India Holton, author of the Dangerous Damsels series

‘A rich and confident fantasy with expansive world building and a magic system as vicious as it is unique. Filled with intricately woven twists and action from beginning to end, readers will have a hard time putting this book down. Readers are going to LOVE THIS BOOK !’ Angela Montoya, author of Sinner’s Isle and A Cruel Thirst

Firstborn of the Sun

marvellous michael anson

PENGUIN MICHAEL JOSEPH

Penguin Michael Joseph is part of the Penguin Random House group of companies whose addresses can be found at global.penguinrandomhouse.com

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First published 2025 001

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To my mother, who made my dreams her own.

To my husband, who held close the midnight candle that burned while this book morphed into existence.

To you, dear reader, E ․ káàbo ․ `.

Foreword

Firstborn of the Sun is a revelation of the powers that existed in Yorubaland and the accompanying rivalry and power struggles throughout the ages. Moremi’s odyssey, Alawani and L’ọrẹ’s bond and blood oath, and the warrior maidens’ ferocious nature all bring this novel to life. Firstborn of the Sun explores different ancient powers and reveals the effects of those powers on their possessors. Through this novel, you will realize that Ẹni t’o ṣe fún Iná kọ ló ṣe fún Oòrùn (The person who gave the fire its powers is not comparable to the person who did for the sun).

And in the end, Ikú ogun ní n pa Akínkanju (He who lives by the sword usually dies by it ). Ikú odò ní n pa Omùwẹ (Death by drowning is typically the fate of he who swims in water).

(Marve’s Grandma)

Author’s Note

Dear Reader,

There is no Yoruba culture, tradition or tribe without the stories we tell, the songs we sing, and the tales of legends long gone. Our history remains alive on our tongues for as long as we have breath, and even when we leave this world, our story never ends. For who are you without the knowledge of those who came before you? How will you fight the uncertainty of the future if you do not know how those who came before you earned their victories?

With this book, I hope to introduce you to a world that feels so different from your own, yet so familiar, like a dream you’ve had once before. Either in this life or the one before. I hope that as you take in these words, the sands of Oru sing to you in whispers that resonate with your heart.

I hope that the characters in this folklore feel as real to you as the strangers that pass by your window, and when the time comes to reach in for the agbára within you, may you find the strength to do what you know to be right and true. May your courage be sung in songs that outlive you, and may your strength never fade when the shadows come dancing.

May your heart burn like the sun, bright, hot, and undying.

– Marvellous.

Ìlú-Oba

T he Rings of Or u

Ìlú-Ìmò

Ìlú-Oba

Ìlú-Ìmò

Ìlú-Opo

Ìlú-Idán

Ìlú-Onísònà

Ìlú-Òdì

Ìlú-Onísònà

Ìlú-Opo

Ìlú-Idán

0 FS T he Day of the First Sun

Timeline of Or u

Regency

1254 FS Death of Queen Aníwúrà. Àlùfáà Àjànàkú becomes High Priest

1254 FS Marriage Ceremony

1254 FS Bir th of Aláàﬁn Olátúnjí, Alawani’s father

1250 FS Àlùfáà Àjànàkú’s Stripping Ceremony, ag ed 18. Lone survivor

50 FS First Stripping Ceremony

1272 FS Aláàﬁn Olátúnjí’s coronation – end of the reg ency period

Timeline of Stripping Ceremonies

Reign of King Aláàﬁn Olátúnjí ˙

Timeline of Or u

1309 FS Bir th of Alawani

Regency

1312 FS Death of the King Eniìtàn rejects the role of High Priest. Babátúndé becomes High Priest and Reg ent

1312 FS Marriage Ceremony

1313 FS Bir th of L’ore

1310 FS Stripping ceremony. Two Sur vivors: Eniìtàn and Babátúndé

Timeline of Stripping Ceremonies

1330 FS Tofa’s coronation - end of the reg ency period

1330 FS Alawani’s Stripping Ceremony

Pronunciation Guide

Characters

* Àbẹ̀ ní Ah-Beh-Nee

* Adékọ̀ yà (Kọ̀ yà) Ah-DayKoh-Yah

* Adémilúà (Milúà) Ah-Day-MeeLoo-Ah

* Àdùkẹ́ Ah-Doo-Keh

* Àdùnni Ah-Doon-Nee

* Àjàgbé Ah-Jah-Gbay

* Àkanní Ah-Kan-Nee

* Alawani Ah-LahWah-Nee

* Àníkẹ́ Ah-Nee-Keh

* Aníwúrà Ah-NeeWoo-Rah

* Àríkẹ́ Ah-Ree-Keh

* Àṣá Ah-Sha

* Babátúndé Bah-BahToon-Day

* Bánkólé Bah-N-Koh-Lay

* Bíọ́ dún Bee-Oh-Doon

* Bùnmi Boo-N-Mee

* Ẹniìtàn Eh-Nee-I-Tan

* Èyítáyọ̀ Eh-Yee-Tah-Yoh

* Gbẹ́ kẹ̀ Gbẹ-Kẹh

* K áyọ̀ dé Kah-Yọh-Day

* Kẹ́ hìndé Kẹh-Yin-Day

* Kẹni Kẹh-Nee

* L’ọrẹ Law-Rẹh

* Már ùn Mah-Roon

* Máyọ̀ wá Mah-Yọh-wah

* Mẹ́ fa Meh-Fah

* Méje Meh-Jay

* Méjìlá Meh-Jee-Lah

* Mẹ́ jọ Meh-Joh

* Mẹ́ sàn Meh-San

* Mọ́ kànla Maw-Kan-Lah

* Mọ́ remí Mọh-Reh-Mee

* Ọlátúnjí Oh-Lah-Toon-Jee

* Ọmọ’ge Ọh-Mọh-Gay

* Ọmọ́ tádé Oh-Moh-Tah-Day

* Onílẹ̀ Oh-Nee-Leh

* Oyíndà Oh-Yin-Dah

* Rẹ̀ mí Rẹh-Mee

* Ṣẹgẹ Shẹh-Gẹh

* Táíwo Tay-ee-Who

* Tèmi Teh-Mee

* Tofa (Tofaratì) Toh-Fah(Rah-Tee)

* Aganjù Ah-Gan-Ju

* Erinlẹ̀ Eh-Reen-Leh

Gods

* Irúnmọlẹ̀ I-Run-Moh-Leh

* Ọbàtálá Oh-Bah-Tah-Lah

* Odùduwà Oh-Du-Du-Wah

* Ògún Oh-Goon

* Ọya Aw-Yah

* Ṣàng ó Sha-N-Goh

Places

* Gbàgede Gba-Geh-Deh

* Ìlú-Idán I-Loo-I-Dan

* Ìlú-Ìmọ̀ I-Loo-I-Moh

* Ìlú-Ọba I-Loo-Uh-Bah

* Ìlú-Òdì I-Loo-Oh-Dee

* Ìlú-Oníṣọ̀ nà I-Loo-OhNee-Shaw-Nu

* Ìlú-Ọpọ I-Loo-Uh-Pur

* Oru Oh-Roo

* Òtútù Oh-Too-Too

Titles

* Ab’Ó . bakú Ah-Boh-Bah-Koo

* Aláàfin Ah-LahAh-Feen

* Àlùfáà-Àgba Ah-Loo-FahA-A-Gbah

* Aya’ba Ah-Yah-Bah

* Baálẹ̀ -Iku Bah-Ah-Lehee-Koo

* Baba-Ìtàn Bah-Bah-ee-Tan

* Ìyá-Aye I-Yah-A-Yay

* Ìyá-Idán I-Yah-ee-Dan

* Ọmọ’ba Oh-Moh-Bah

* Ọmọ Ìlú mi Oh-Moh I-Lu-Mi

* Ọmọ ìyá mí Oh-Moh I-Yah-Mi

Mọ́ remí, Àjáṣòro o

Mọ́ remí, Àjáṣòro

Ọmọ t’o fúnmi, má mà gbá o

Mọ́ remí, Àjáṣòro

Ọmọ t’o fúnmi, má mà gbá o

Mọ́ remí, Àjáṣòro

Mọ́ remí, Àjáṣòro the child you’ve given me, please don’t take it away from me

Prologue

The Sun Temple, Royal Island, Kingdom of Oru

1313

FS MÓ ․ REMÍ

Nine blood moons and one day.

That was how long Mọ́ remí hung in the balance between life and death.

The cool evening breeze sent shivers down her spine. This was the night she had feared and with every passing moment she realized how wildly unprepared she was for it. Searing pain washed over her; she shut her eyes, forcing herself to breathe through it until the intense sharp pain dulled into an ache. Thoughts of her mother raced through her mind as she lay on the floor over layers of mats and wrappers. She wished more than anything that she wasn’t miles away from home, scared and alone with only the older woman by her feet shouting at her.

Mọ́ remí glanced around the empty room. No matter how beautiful, it was no place to be born. Her child ought to be born into the ocean like she was – like her mother was, and her mother before her. At home, she’d be kneeling in the wet sands at the edge of the sea, feeling the saltwater rush in and out of her, stinging and cleansing, preparing to greet the child whose

first cry would be from the cold; born of water, born of Òtútù. When she closed her eyes, she heard the rush of the wind and the crash of the waves on the rocks that her home was built upon. She wouldn’t have been pushing alone. She’d have had the force of the mighty ocean urging her child into the world. She could see her sisters standing barefoot in the sinking sand at the shoreline, singing to her, and she could feel the rhythmic strokes of her aunt’s heavy hand drumming against her back.

Most of all, Mọ́ remí could hear her mother’s voice pouring strength into her. She needed that voice, but with every wave of contraction, it seemed farther and farther away, and a surge of heat consumed her. She felt a sudden tightness in her chest. Panic overwhelmed her. Her lips trembled as she cried for the mother she feared she’d never see again. The other wives of the High Priest had their mothers with them in the days following their wedding. They followed them everywhere, washing their feet and braiding their hair. But here she was, a stranger in a new world. Wishing that at any time in her twenty first suns, her mother had told her how much bringing forth life would feel like death.

‘Calm down, Mọ́ remí! I can’t hear your child’s heartbeat if you keep screaming down the temple,’ the midwife’s shrill voice cut through her thoughts.

‘Oh gods, help me, please?’ Mọ́ remí prayed and lifted her gaze to the reddish-brown walls that seemed to close in on her. On them were sand portraits of women – wives of past High Priests. Their dark eyes peered into her soul. Hundreds of them. Had they been as terrified as she was? Had they left this room alive?

A few moments later, the midwife’s eyes locked with Mọ́ remí’s; her shoulders dropped, and she shrunk back. ‘I hear nothing.’

‘Ah! Gods forbid! Ọmọ mi ò lè ku – my child can’t die!’

‘There is nothing to be done,’ the midwife’s voice shattered through her mind, and her ears rang. ‘You’ve lost too much blood, Mọ́ remí. Let the child come out.’

Mọ́ remí groaned, her chest heaving as she struggled to control her breathing. Unable to move the bottom half of her body, she did the only thing she could think of – the one thing her husband would kill her for. She called upon her gods in the north.

The bargain was simple. Her life for her child’s. She was nothing without her child, so she drew a deep breath and began to chant, ‘Child of my womb, take from my blood, child of my womb, take from my life, come back to me.’ She pitched forward and cried hysterically, ‘Ọmọọ ` mi, gba agbára à mi – my child, take my strength!’ She’d journeyed south through the sands and storms. She’d lied, stolen, and done everything to carry the High Priest’s heir. The child who would save her people. It couldn’t die.

‘Stop that nonsense,’ the midwife shouted and pried herself out of Mọ́ remí’s grip. ‘The gods can’t help you. The sun has long set, and they are asleep. It’s you holding this child back.’ She lifted Mọ́ remí to her knees and placed her on all fours. ‘Your child will rot inside of you – it must be born, or it’ll be the death of you.’

Mọ́ remí ignored the midwife. Her gods didn’t sleep at night. Her gods didn’t rise with the dawn. She reached for the darkness enclosing the room and allowed the void to fill her mind. Hands and knees on the ground, she cried out to the gods of her people, ‘Ẹ ` yin Òrìṣà àwọn bàbá babá nlá mi, ẹ má k’ẹ` hìn sí mi – gods of my ancestors, please don’t turn your back on me.’

Mọ́ remí didn’t know if her gods would answer, but she was prepared to die trying. There was no going back.

Mọ́ remí’s agbára ignited inside of her. The familiar warmth

of her magic rose to the surface of her skin. Her pupils turned an unnatural shade of blue, and wisps of mist seeped from her hands onto the mat. No – not yet. She needed her agbára flowing into her child, not bursting out of her. She shut her eyes firmly until she felt her agbára recede. In the years she’d spent in the kingdom of Oru, she’d never exposed her powers, and she couldn’t afford to now.

A loud voice pulled her out of her thoughts. A handmaiden had rushed into the room. ‘It’s Aya’ba Oyíndà,’ she called out from the doorway. ‘Her child is nearly here!’

Mọ́ remí screamed, ‘No!’ She turned to the midwife. ‘I’m ready! I’m ready! Get it out, get it out now!’ her words tumbling over each other. If her child was not born first, it would all have been for nothing.

Mọ́ remí summoned all her strength; the powers of the gods, new and old, north and south. She pushed from her shoulders, from the soles of her feet, from the core deep within her, and her agbára ignited like a raging fire flooding her mind and body. This time, she didn’t stop it.

‘I have the head. Push again!’ the midwife yelled.

With a loud cry, Mọ́ remí pushed the baby out, wet and wormlike, into the hands of the midwife crouched at her feet. She crashed to the floor and lay on her side. As soon as she caught her breath, she asked with a shaking voice, ‘Is it alive?’

The midwife was busy with the baby, wiping off the fluid and blood that had accompanied it into the world. She carefully removed the liquid from its nose and mouth, then cut off the rope that connected the baby to its mother. ‘It’s so cold,’ the old midwife said, swaddling the child in a cloth and shaking her head. ‘It’s a girl.’

She placed the limp child in the basket next to her, and without raising her head, she said, ‘You need to push out the afterbirth too.’

Mọ́ remí followed the midwife’s instructions as the woman skilfully kneaded the afterbirth out of her. Mọ́ remí could feel that the midwife was intentionally avoiding her gaze. She watched eagerly as the woman mopped the blood of the baby with a wet cloth. After a few moments of eerie silence, the midwife picked up the baby and stood with her back to Mọ́ remí.

‘She’s not crying,’ Mọ́ remí said, her voice breaking.

The midwife turned to speak but froze. ‘Yo— you . . . your eyes!’ she stammered and stepped back. ‘You’re not from here. You’re not of the sands!’

‘Give me my daughter!’ Mọ́ remí winced as she yelled, stretching her arms towards the woman. The people of Oru were utterly ignorant of powers that weren’t of their gods and were taught to fear everything not of the sands and sun, but she wasn’t going to let that keep her from her daughter.

The midwife took another step back and glanced at the door, her hand outstretched. Her palm started to glow a deep orange as she drew on her agbára. ‘The child is gone, and a mother can’t set eyes on her dead child – our gods forbid it. Don’t come any closer.’

Mọ́ remí struggled off the floor, and every move hurt more than the last. When she tried to walk, she fell to her knees. She rose again and was nearly blinded by the light emanating from the midwife’s palm. Even from where she stood, Mọ́ remí could feel the heat quickly filling the room.

‘Not a step closer!’ the midwife warned. A moment later, the smell of smoke caught her attention: a spark of flame had blossomed from the heat in her palms and spread to the outer layers of the cloth. She cried out and shoved the child into Mọ́ remí’s arms, staggering to the corner of the room to dunk her hands into one of the clay pots filled with water. A white mist rose from it, and she exhaled slowly.

A faint cry.

Mọ́ remí locked eyes with the midwife.

The baby cried again.

‘Gods of sun and sands!’ the midwife cried. ‘What sorcery is this? The child was dead. What have you done to her?’

Mọ́ remí felt her heart tense. Hope blossomed in her chest as she realized what had happened. ‘I didn’t do this. You did. You warmed her with your agbára. My child lives. Your queen is alive.’

‘There was no heartbeat,’ the midwife said, her face full of horror. ‘Who . . . What . . . Who are you? Where do you come from?’

Mọ́ remí held her child closer to her chest.

‘Answer me! Who gives you life?’ the midwife said, her voice warbling.

‘Go and tell your High Priest that his daughter lives. Tell him that his firstborn is alive. Tell my husband that the queen is born!’

The midwife grew hysterical, ‘Irọ! You lie! This thing will never be our queen. The Holy Order will hear of the evil that runs in your blood.’

Mọ́ remí noticed the midwife glance towards the doorway and a sudden dread overcame her. The woman would report her and ruin everything. Mọ́ remí had seen people burnt alive for merely saying the names of the old gods, let alone possessing the blue, glowing eyes of her agbára – and as a wife of the High Priest, too. Holding her baby tight to her chest, she launched herself at the midwife, grabbing her by the arm. Her agbára burst out of her, the warm, prickly sensation flowing through her hands. It happened so quickly that the midwife didn’t realize what was happening to her until the sharp pain of frost bit into her skin, turning it dark and cold. She screamed and fell, hitting her head against the wall on the way down.

Mọ́ remí stared at the woman sprawled on the ground, and could only think one thing: run. She moved quickly, pulling off her blood-soaked nightgown and finding a new ankara dress from her clothes. The large búbù gown gave her room to breathe. She tied a wrapper across her waist and tucked loose pieces of fabric firmly between her thighs to stop the fluid from dripping down her legs. She wrapped her daughter in another warm cloth and limped out of the room.

Mọ́ remí stopped at the doorway, pausing to breathe. The birthing chamber was in the east wing of the temple – the birthplace of kings and queens. She closed her eyes, and tears formed in them again. Her daughter deserved to claim her birthright.

The open courtyard before her welcomed in the blood moon’s red light, and she looked up to the sky and wondered if her mother was seeing the same moon this night. If her mother knew that despite her doubts, her daughter had birthed the next queen of Oru.

She raised her baby to her face, feeling the warmth of her breath, and sighed. M ọ́ rem í used the wrapper to strap the child to her back, tying a firm knot across her tummy to hold her in place. She peeped into the next room, checking that the coast was clear. All attention was on the woman at the room’s heart, suffering through her own birth. Relieved, M ọ́ rem í made to run, but a loud cry stopped her short. ‘It’s a boy.’

Mọ́ remí watched the other woman cradle her son, a thought crossing her mind. Only the midwife had witnessed her powers; if she killed her, she wouldn’t have to run. No life was worth risking her people’s survival. The midwife had to die.

The faint beat of her daughter’s heart and the warmth of her skin gave Mọ́ remí more courage than she could have

imagined, more will than she thought herself capable of. She turned back towards her birthing chamber, but footsteps approached from behind – Àlùfáà-Àgbà’s robes dragged along the ground, creating an eerie, sweeping effect as he walked. His figure moved like a ghost across the courtyard, his eyes fixed on the armed temple maidens before him.

Blood rushed to her head, and the sound of her own heartbeat made her choke with fear. Her fingers tightened against her daughter and she wrapped her agbára around herself like a cloak, hiding her from view. As his lanky frame loomed nearer, Mọ́ remí saw the deep wrinkles etched into his skin as the torch flames flickered against his glowing white robes. She glanced towards her birthing chamber, the distance now too far to cover without drawing attention. Her chance was gone – the midwife would live to tell everyone what she’d seen.

Àlùfáà-Àgbà walked the length and breadth of the birthing square, coming to a stop just before the chamber of the woman whose son was still wailing from the terrors of being born. Mọ́ remí drew carefully on her agbára, concealing herself again as he drew nearer. The only thing between them was the door to the other woman’s birth chamber. Mọ́ remí stood still as ice, praying for him to walk through the doors so that she could run, but instead, he stopped in his tracks, his deep-set eyes peering into the shadows. Although no more than ten steps apart, Mọ́ remí knew that the Elder Priest couldn’t see her, not with her agbára shielding her. But she also knew that he was perhaps the most powerful priest in the kingdom, and he could probably sense her magic. As she fought the pain still coursing through her body, she heard her mother’s voice. Don’t move an inch. You’re invisible, not untouchable. You can’t be seen, but you can be struck down. Slow down your heart but don’t faint, or you will fall, and the illusion will shatter. Her energy was slipping away. She was succumbing to the

pain from childbirth, her stomach still cramped, pulling in on itself, her muscles sore and fatigued, and she felt her heart slow dangerously. At any moment, she’d fall.

Àlùfáà-Àgbà swiped slowly, grabbing at the empty space a hair’s breadth from her face. He knew something was there, and just as his hand was about to strike her illusion, the new mother called out to him from within her chamber, ‘ÀlùfáàÀgbà, come and meet your king.’ Choosing the boy over his curiosity, the Elder Priest walked into the room and his maidens followed behind him.

Mọ́ remí would later think back to this moment so often that it would drive her to the edge of madness. She’d wonder if she should’ve revealed her child as the true firstborn, if her husband’s love would’ve saved her from the Elder Priest’s wrath. But at that moment, Mọ́ remí broke the illusion and emerged from the cocoon of ice she’d hidden herself in. And ran as fast as she could, leaving behind a crash like that of falling mirrors.

So it is you the gods sent to take my à ṣírí.

Sit if you must, I’ve got a lot to say and so little time. You see the sands of that hourglass dripping slowly next to you? That’s how long I’ve got to tell you the story that keeps me bound in this oblivion. So sit, please. Listen and release me, for my soul lingers only until the last of my àṣírí is given to you.

I am sorry for this burden that you will bear. Whatever you do, remember to tell another before death comes for you. Eternity is unkind to those who go down to the grave with secrets meant for the living.

So here’s the truth:

Agbára oru is a curse that blinded our kind to what the gods truly were. Cursed are those born of the sun and sands. Cursed are we all who wield the power of the sun. Cursed are the sands that bury our bones. Cursed are the gods that made us so.

Ìlú-Ọba – The

Capital City

First Ring, Kingdom of Oru

L’ọrẹ’s first sin was to be born in the dark of night when the gods were asleep. She often wondered if her mother, a maiden of the Sun Temple, knew when she birthed her that she’d wronged the gods. If she hadn’t known the moment L’ọrẹ was born, surely she knew the moment the Holy Order’s axe severed her head from her neck.

L’ọrẹ peeled off the hood of her cloak and inhaled deeply, taking in the cold desert air. The night was clear, the moon shone like a pearl in the sky, and the icy winds howled as they hovered over the tall buildings that formed the capital city of Ìlú-Ọba. The city was built with the whitest of limestone, bleached bright enough that the sun made the high points sparkle, and at night, the moon’s light gave the city an otherworldly glow. In the distance, she could see the twin pillars that marked the entrance to Gbàgede, the arena, and she quickened her pace. The man trailing behind her moved faster.

L’ọrẹ had known he was following her from the moment she locked eyes with him while crossing the city gates. If she’d listened to her father and kept her gaze glued to the

ground when venturing outside of her home ring, the man wouldn’t have recognized her. It didn’t matter that she’d never seen him before. He knew her. He knew her father. They all did. Everyone in Oru could spot them from a distance so they could either avoid, mock or spit on them. But L’ọrẹ couldn’t back down from a fight – especially not when anyone called her a coward.

So, when the man now raging towards her awakened his powers – his agbára, turning his palms golden in the sun’s light – she took a deep breath and whispered the words that even the wind must never hear. The words that made it possible to fool everyone into thinking she was like them; that she had agbára oru. Dìde. Fún mi ní agbára r ẹ. Her crescent blades came alive with the same yellow glow that filled the man’s hands, creating a mirage of the magic that refused to light up her skin. A spell her father had taught her to mimic agbára oru. A gift from the old gods.

The man lifted his chin and met her eyes. ‘You’re a disgrace, and a coward,’ he spat. ‘Just like your father.’

She knew what her father would have done, what he begged her to do every time something like this happened. Yet, the word rang in her ears like the echoes of a gong. Coward. The word that hung close to her like a shadow. Impossible to leave behind no matter how fast she ran.

She felt the heat of her blades sting against her skin as she roared towards the outraged man and leapt off the ground.

L’ọrẹ kicked at his face, and a trail of sand followed and stung his eyes. Her assailant screamed and dropped to his knees, rubbing his eyes. If the agbára glowing in his palms could have burnt him the way it would another, he’d have blinded himself.

L’ọrẹ dropped to the ground and rolled onto her knees. Taking advantage of the man’s frenzy, with a single swipe,

her blades burned deep into his forearms. The glow in his palms faded as quickly as it had come on.

The man let out an anguished howl. ‘I’ll kill you!’ he screamed, pressing his hands to his forearms, trying to hold back the blood that poured out of them.

People crowded the street quicker than L’ọrẹ thought possible at this time of night. Whispers became shouts, and finally, the words that threw her into a rage hummed in the air around her. Ọmọbìnrin Olójo yẹn mà ni – it’s the coward’s child. She raised her hood, planning to slip into the shadows, but three men emerged from the crowd. Their palms were bright and aglow with agbára as they leered at her. She was in for it now. The odds, as always, were against her. Where the hell was Alawani? L’ọrẹ turned and looked for her best friend, peering into alleyways and behind the shadows of palm trees, but he was nowhere to be seen. She turned on her heels and ran towards the arena, seeking refuge in the pit of death.

Gbàgede was as mysterious as it was frightening to most people in Oru. They only visited when the gods called for Ogun: a battle where the strongest warriors not born of royal blood came together to fight and show off their strength, celebrating the powers granted to them by the gods. The victor of Ogun – the battle of honour – would have the privilege of joining the royal guard. And the loser would grieve their loss from their grave. Some people claimed that even when Ogun was over, they could still hear the screams of the fallen being burned alive and the victorious cries of the winners. Being in the sunken pit that was the arena felt like you were descending into the underworld. The stench of burnt flesh filled the air, but L’ọrẹ had become used to everything the arena offered.

Step by step, L’ọrẹ ran further down, her lungs burning for air as she skipped through the white stones that led to

the training grounds far beneath ground level. The hexagonshaped pit was surrounded by rows of stairs on all sides, with dark covers at each edge, held up by large pillars with intricate carvings and stained with the blood of the fallen. Rows of torches lit the lowest level, and the moon’s light dimly illuminated the rest of the arena.

At first, L’ọrẹ hoped they’d be too afraid to wander into the pit of death with her, but a few heartbeats later, she heard a voice.

‘What have you done?’

It came from the shadows, and L’ọrẹ swung around. She knew that voice, but that didn’t make her any less afraid. Command stepped out of the shadows, and her six-foot frame made L’ọrẹ feel small in her presence as she knelt to greet the woman.

Command’s steel armour glistened from beneath her cloak and the cowries in her thick locs danced with each step she took from behind the pillars. The cowries signified the number of people she’d killed. It was custom in Oru to wear the souls of those who died by your hands in cowries so that whenever the wind blew, you’d hear their voices and remember them. Most people hid theirs; they were sometimes even sewn into clothes – obeying the customs but keeping their secrets hidden – but not her. Command wore hundreds of cowries in her hair, and L’ọrẹ wasn’t sure, but it seemed like they grew in number by the year.

The men chasing L’ọrẹ finally reached the top of the arena and began their descent down the hundreds of stairs leading to the pit.

L’ọrẹ cast a fearful gaze at Command, who looked at the raging men and frowned. ‘What happened?’ she asked, her voice a low husk that made every word she spoke reverberate.

‘They started it,’ L’ọrẹ said quickly.

Command cast her a sidelong look. ‘Who threw the first strike?’

L’ọrẹ lowered her gaze like a child being scolded. ‘He called me a –’

‘I don’t want to hear it. Finish this. Get rid of them,’ Command said and slid back into the shadows.

L’ọrẹ steadied herself, grounding her feet into the loose sand beneath her, preparing for her attackers and calculating who’d be the easiest to strike first. It had to be the thin one with the scarf tied too firmly to his face. No way he could breathe easily under that mask. Knowing Command would never engage in a street fight, she prayed Alawani would join her before she had to attack the slowest but heaviest one. His yam-like muscles contoured in the moon’s light, and she didn’t want to know what it’d feel like to be on the receiving end of that fist.

By the time the advancing men were close enough, she’d chosen a different fighting stance, trying to determine her best move.

‘Make up your mind!’ came the order from the shadows. Her commander had obviously decided that this would be her training for the night.

L’ọrẹ held on tight to her blades and struck at the man who reached her first. This one flashed his yellowing teeth with pride as he ran towards her, jumping the stairs in twos.

Yellow Teeth evaded her blades faster than she’d expected, ducking and sidestepping her blows.

‘Focus! Watch his feet,’ Command said.

L’ ọ r ẹ could smell the strong stench of days-old palm wine on his breath. Behind him, the dim light caused his comrades to trip and fall as they attempted to skip down the flight of stairs. L’ ọ r ẹ returned her focus to the one before her.

‘Try again, Ọmọ’ge,’ Yellow Teeth winked and laughed, moving so quickly it looked like he was gliding over the sand.

L’ọrẹ’s frown deepened. He was toying with her. She lunged at him and tripped onto the sand.

‘Get up! Use your head, L’ọrẹ. End this,’ Command said.

L’ọrẹ didn’t allow his quick steps to distract her from the real danger – his hands. While his glowing palms wouldn’t burn him – as agbára was an extension of oneself – it’d burn anything and anyone it touched. But her hands were wrapped in the heat-resistant fabric her father had sourced for her after one too many burns. Now, she never left home without them. It wasn’t enough to cover her full arms, but she’d make do.

L’ọrẹ heard the bald man, the second of the trio, finally jump into the pit, a gash on his forehead from the fall earlier. She drew back from the pair, trying to take them on one on one, but as soon as she got close enough to the bald man, he grabbed a fist full of her hair and dragged her across the sand. Her blades dropped instinctively as she reached for his hand, scratching at his grip. She ground her teeth, preparing for the pain, and yanked her head in the opposite direction. Her roots burned from the pull, and she drew a dagger from its sheath and sliced at his calf. He went down quickly, screaming as his blood pooled around him.

Enough of this. L’ọrẹ ran towards Yellow Teeth and threw her dagger to the ground in a wide arc. He glanced at it, falling for the distraction. She jumped and pulled him by the neck, and did not let go until his head crashed against the sand. A jolt of pain shot through her elbows, but she rolled away before he could burn her. Whatever pain she felt, she hoped his head felt much worse.

It didn’t seem to.

His lips curved into a wide grin. ‘Notin do me! I resemble who dey fear blood? Na iron dey my head o!’ he said,

twisting and turning his head as if to check that it was still attached properly.

He lunged at her, and she ducked, but not before his hot palms grabbed the part of her arm that wasn’t protected. She screamed. It felt like someone had poured boiling water on her. She pulled him in closer and knocked her head into his. He yelled and staggered, releasing his grip on her as she stumbled backwards, but didn’t fall.

‘You should’ve seen that coming,’ Command said.

Or you could help me, L’ọrẹ thought but didn’t dare say out loud. She glanced at the blades she’d thrown to the ground. They were too far out of reach. L’ọrẹ surveyed her burnt arm. Curse the sun! She wouldn’t be able to hide this from her father. The wound had already formed blisters. She didn’t initially notice when the masked man joined the fight and turned in time to see his fist inches away from her face.

‘Too slow!’ Command shouted. L’ọrẹ’s knuckles cracked as her fist crashed into the masked man’s hardened core. He grunted but didn’t move an inch. She squared up to him again. But he was too fast. She couldn’t land a single strike. Her sore arm stung with each blow as salty sweat pricked at the raw wound. A howling laugh erupted from him, vibrating his entire being. At that moment, L’ọrẹ knew she wouldn’t win the fight. Not if she kept fighting without a plan. How would she explain to Command that she lost a fight to drunken street thugs?

‘Strategy, not rage,’ Command said, as though her commander could read her mind.

L’ọrẹ nodded firmly, her eyes fixed on all three men. Somehow, she felt like even if Command wasn’t there ordering her steps, she’d still hear the woman’s deep voice echoing in her mind.

‘Keep your feet light on the ground,’ Command’s voice boomed.

‘Who dey talk for there?’ Yellow Teeth shouted, glaring at the shadows before lunging at L’ọrẹ, a deep grunt rumbling in his throat.

L’ọrẹ waited for him to get close enough before throwing a punch with her left hand, and he caught it. A wry smile crept up her face – the charred cloth was better than charred skin. The man pulled her close, and as he swung his head to slam it into hers, the stiff edge of her fingers met his throat. A long dry heave erupted from him, followed by short, ragged gasps. L’ọrẹ went after him, pulled him forward and kneed him in the face, breaking his nose and tossing him to the ground.

‘Keep moving,’ Command said. Yellow Teeth was on his feet again. He cackled, revealing his now crimson-stained mouth. What were these guys made of?

Exhausted, L’ọrẹ lunged forward, landing on a single leg. She’d miscalculated. With only one foot on the ground, he took advantage of her mistake and swiped at her leg, sending her face-first into the sand.

‘Recover,’ Command said briskly.

Blood and sand clung to her lips, filling her mouth with the sour tang of metal and clay. She groaned as the heavy weight of his boot dug her face into the ground. Command’s voice echoed like a distant bell in her mind.

Struggling beneath his weight, L’ọrẹ used her hands to twist at his ankle when suddenly, his foot was off her head. She looked up to see Yellow Teeth on the floor next to her, blood pouring from his mouth. Someone pulled her off the ground, and she knew by the feel of his hands that it was Alawani.

‘Right on time,’ she said, smiling and spitting out the blood in her mouth.

‘What’s going on? Why are we fighting? Who are these guys?’ he asked, his naturally curved brows furrowing together in disapproval.

‘I’ll explain later!’ She crashed her blades against each other, spilling sparks of light in the direction of the remaining duo, who were still raging for a fight.

‘This is no be your fight, Ọmọ’ba. Commot make I no wound you,’ the masked man said to Alawani as he pulled down the scarf that concealed his lower face, revealing a skull tattoo across his cheek.

The bald man looked to his comrade and then to Alawani, ‘Ọmọ’ba or not, the girl cut Shaki hand. If we no do our own back, make thunder strike us.’

Of course, they didn’t care that Alawani was the Ọmọ’ba. Long ago, the gods had declared that no child of a sovereign could inherit the throne, an unyielding part of the deal the first High Priest made with the gods in exchange for agbára, so the Holy Order found other ways to secure an heir. So it didn’t matter whether the people called him a prince or not: with no inheritance, authority or claim, his title meant nothing and he was fair game.

‘If you want her, you’ll have to go through me,’ Alawani growled.

The men sneered sinisterly.

Alawani looked at L’ọrẹ. She gave him a wicked grin, knowing what he was asking her to do. Muscles tensing, she set her stance to fight.

Alawani drew his sword and awakened his agbára, turning the cool steel from dull grey to gold. L’ọrẹ placed her back against his, and they stood firm, protecting each other as they fought the men. She faced the masked one. Was she suffering from a concussion that made her slower, or was he faster than Yellow Teeth? Whatever it was, she kept going.

Her strength renewed every time her back slammed into Alawani’s, reminding her that she wasn’t alone. They were in sync – this was their battle dance. When she threw one of her blades into the air so she could use her free hand to throw punches, he caught it before it reached the ground – using it seamlessly as a second weapon. When she needed it again, he found her hand without looking back. They’d practised every step for years. Behind her, L’ọrẹ heard the man Alawani fought scream. Then came the familiar smell of metal burning flesh.

The men went down, and just before they could exhale in relief, half a dozen thugs stormed into the arena. One glance at each other was all L’ọrẹ needed to know Alawani’s next move. She took a step back. He clapped his palms together and took in a deep breath. As he separated them, his agbára’s light intensified. His palms glowed so brightly that L’ọrẹ had to look away. She took another few steps back as he rapidly heated the air around them and held the form for a moment, radiating heat energy until his hands shimmered and the air began to boil. Through squinted eyes, she saw threads of light tracing the edge of the glowing orb vibrating in his hands. He threw it at the wall, and the rush of hot air hit the men descending into the pit and sent them flying against the stone stairs.

L’ọrẹ smiled. Prince or not, he was pretty impressive. Now wasn’t the time to be jealous, but she couldn’t help it. In all her life, with all her tricks, she’d never been – and would never be – able to form an energy blast like that. Alawani was more powerful than ordinary people in Oru because he’d inherited the agbára of his father, the king. She couldn’t stop her heart from squeezing tight against her chest every time she witnessed his powers. She even tried whispering the same words that awakened her blades.

Nothing. Her pale hands remained the way they’d always been. Ordinary. She closed her eyes and formed fists around her blade handles.

She was lost in her thoughts, and between the loud blasts and the crash of debris, she didn’t hear the man creep up behind her. Not until a sweaty palm slammed against her face. She raised her blades to strike but could not move her arms as two men from the group restrained her, one on each side, and knocked them from her hands. She tried to scream, but her voice was muffled. Alawani spun, shocked to see the bulky man holding her hostage. He, too, had let his guard down.

Even in her panic, L’ọrẹ knew better than to look to Command for help. She couldn’t let anyone know that the commander was there at all.

‘Let her go, and no one will get hurt,’ Alawani said, trying to keep an even tone, one glowing hand in front of him and another on his sword.

The man holding her face laughed. ‘Why you go dey protect this coward pikin. You no hear wetin she do? If e be like say we rate you now dat one go be different matter but as e be like this, if you no commot for road we go clear you too abi you no see as we many? You wey suppose beg as we corner you so. Ṣẹgẹ, handle this boy, abeg.’

From the corner of her eyes, L’ọrẹ saw another thug rise from the debris and smash a glass bottle against his head. He used the glass-sharp edge of the remnant to cut an incision on his hand. He ignited his agbára and yelled out a battle cry, showing them both that he was ready to die there and then. There was nothing worse than fighting someone who wasn’t afraid to die.

Even though everyone in the kingdom had agbára oru, every fight started with fists and weapons. Only fools used their powers when fighting an unknown opponent. The

gods were cunning in how they distributed agbára, and you couldn’t know how powerful your enemy’s was until you gave them a reason to show you. Agbára changed the game. While it was hereditary, the intensity and strength with which it manifested was not. Those odds turned every fight into one against the whims of the gods.

L’ọrẹ was still trying to figure out a way out of the mess she’d found herself in when the ground beneath her feet started burning. Curse the sun. Alawani was going to burn them all.

She threw her head back, hitting her captor’s nose. He cried out but didn’t release his grip. His large sweaty hand held on tighter. She twisted and turned, but there was no way out.

‘I won’t say it again. Let her go!’ Alawani growled, holding his glowing hand in the air.

One of the men stepped forward and tried to form an energy blast. Alawani didn’t even move. They all watched as the other man’s hands vibrated vigorously as he tried to form and hold the energy ball. It expanded too quickly and blew up in his face. He went down just as fast – a victim of his own weakness.

They should’ve backed down, but L’ọrẹ knew they wouldn’t. If the man holding her didn’t have his dirty hand so firmly against her mouth, she would’ve warned him to run for his life. But it was too late.

Alawani stretched out his glowing hands, and in mere moments, from behind them, the ground began to burn, and magma burst out of it. The brownish sand gave way to the hot orange liquid that spread, inching closer to the men with every moment. L’ọrẹ could tell that it had stung someone from the cries of one of the men.

They hadn’t seen anything yet.

Alawani clapped his hands together, and when he separated

them, the magma followed his command. His hands moved in the air like a puppeteer manoeuvring his strings, and the burning substance floated inches above the ground. The air around them grew so thick with heat that L’ọrẹ felt her head spinning and her vision blurring as she grew faint.

‘I’ll bury you all in this if you don’t release her right now.’

The men relinquished their grips so quickly that even L’ọrẹ was shocked. She ran to Alawani’s side, and he shielded her with his body.

‘I’m going to close my eyes. When I open them, be gone!’

And just like that, the horde of terrifying men turned into a pack of headless chickens, scurrying away.

L’ọrẹ couldn’t take her eyes off Alawani as he returned the magma to the earth. He waved his hands over the ground and cast the red substance back into moulds of black rocks.

He turned and held her in his arms. ‘Are you okay?’

She nodded. ‘Yes, I just need air.’

In the blink of an eye, he awakened his agbára again and waved his hand around, removing some of the heat from the air that surrounded them. His eyes were still fixed on her, and the heat she felt this time was not from the air but within her. Her eyes fell away from his. She wanted more than what they were but she’d never dare say anything. She was, after all . . . just a coward.

Báabá sọnù, k’a ri’ra wa he, ni Yorùbá fí n kọ’là

To be able to find ourselves if we get lost, is the reason Yoruba people give tribal marks

Ìlú-

Ọba – The Capital City First Ring, Kingdom of Oru

L’ỌRẸ

L’ọrẹ had seen ten first suns when she first walked into Command’s arena. It had taken many blood moons for Command to agree to train her, and even then, only in secret under cover of night. Being the daughter of an exiled man, L’ọrẹ shared in his penance – serving time for a crime he’d committed long before she was born. A crime she’d have committed herself if she’d been in his position. So while L’ọrẹ loved her father, she hated the name she was forced to carry like a target on her back.

Winning Ogun and joining the royal guard was her only way out.

Upon seeing Command’s figure emerge from the darkness, L’ ọ r ẹ fell to her knees, awaiting her commander’s next words.

‘You disgrace me,’ Command said finally, walking out slowly from behind the pillar.

Alawani prostrated low before her and stepped back. No doubt still very confused about everything but knowing better than to get in between her and Command when the woman was this angry.

L’ọrẹ rose to her feet. ‘I’m sorry, Command, but –’

‘I don’t know what excuse you can give to justify this,’ Command said in a cool even tone that scared L’ọrẹ more than when the woman shouted. ‘You bring thugs to my arena, and you still can’t win a fight against drunkards? Have I been wasting my time? Is this how you think you’ll win when you get called for Ogun? You think this is what royal guards are made of?’

‘Command, I was outnumbered,’ L’ọrẹ said softly.

‘I trained you to defeat two dozen men,’ Command shouted, then glared at Alawani. ‘He won’t always be there to save you.’

L’ọrẹ lowered her gaze, knowing that nothing she could say would help. Command was right. That should’ve been an easy fight.

Command took a step closer, and L’ọrẹ flinched. She stilled then sighed, raising L’ọrẹ’s burnt arm to observe. ‘Turn around. Let me look at you. Are you hurt?’

L’ọrẹ shook her head, knowing that with Command, anything short of bleeding out her guts was not hurt enough to mention.

Command pulled out a small container and rubbed a sticky substance over the burn on her arm.

L’ọrẹ felt the ache dull immediately and let out a deep breath. ‘Thank you.’ She smiled, hoping the woman would return the sentiment, but Command only sighed again, brushing L’ọrẹ’s hair with her fingers as if checking that the roots were still in place.

‘You should never allow your opponent to get close enough to touch you,’ Command said, pulling out blades from beneath her cloak. ‘And for the sake of all that burns, don’t ever run out of blades in a fight.’ The woman tossed half a dozen blades of different sizes and lengths to L’ọrẹ – two of which she’d pulled out of her greying hair. ‘Wear this.’

L’ọrẹ picked them up and hid them along the belt strapped to her thighs and in her hair.

‘You have nothing to prove to anyone outside these walls. If you want to prove you’re not a coward, do it here during Ogun; do it beneath the sun where even the gods won’t be able to change your name from Victor,’ Command said, her face still stern but her voice a soft whisper.

L’ọrẹ felt a lump form in her throat, and she had to swallow hard to keep from bursting into tears. In the absence of her mother, Command, in her own very unusual way, had kept L’ọrẹ safe and given her refuge within these walls, even when doing so meant risking her life. L’ọrẹ blinked the tears away. The only thing worse than losing that fight, worse than even disappointing her commander, would be crying in the arena. Only blood and sweat were acceptable in the pit of death – never tears.

Command leaned in closer to her. ‘If I didn’t think you could do this, I wouldn’t be wasting my time training you or risking the wrath of the Regent by doing so. I told your father I could make a warrior out of you. Don’t make me a liar.

‘You,’ Command said, pointing to Alawani. ‘My arena is not your playground. You’re paying for this damage.’

‘Yes, Command,’ Alawani said standing to attention.

Command glared at him, then said, ‘If you have to pull the earth apart to win a fight with street thugs then you’re not worthy of being in this space.’

Alawani gave a firm nod, his eyes fixed on the ground.

‘Have I taught you both nothing?’

As L’ọrẹ moved to speak, Command raised her hand, silencing her. ‘Go home, L’ọrẹ. Tomorrow I intend to see the warrior I’ve trained, not this silly dance you did today.’ And with that, Command slid into the shadows.

L’ọrẹ slumped to the ground and buried her face in her hands. She wasn’t ready. Alawani sat beside her on the warm sandy ground and placed his arm over her shoulders, drawing her close.

‘She loves you, you know?’ he said softly, tilting his head in the direction Command had disappeared in.

L’ọrẹ nodded slowly. ‘I know. I just – I just want to be better. Stronger. She’s right, I should’ve won that fight without you.’

‘Tell me what happened.’

‘You saw what happened.’

‘No, tell me from the beginning, Tèmi.’

That name was like a trigger, making her heart skip a beat and filling her with a mixture of emotions. Only he called her that. Tèmi – my own. Her gaze roamed the arena, avoiding his eyes. ‘One of them said it.’

‘Said what?’

She allowed her eyes to rest on him until he understood.

‘You’re the bravest person I know.’ The words left a smile on his face, and she wanted to believe him. But he only said so because he didn’t know her secret. She was a coward. She just didn’t like hearing it.

She shoved his shoulder. ‘Yeah, yeah, I’ve heard. Thanks for helping anyway.’

Alawani laughed so loud his voice echoed through the arena.

‘Why are you laughing?’ L’ọrẹ said, frowning.

‘This is exactly how we met.’

L’ọrẹ looked around the empty arena and the dwindling torches and smiled. ‘I think you’re right.’

‘I am,’ Alawani said, still laughing. ‘You’d just finished training with Command. I was on my way home and heard someone screaming, and you were in here with two boys twice your size fighting like a tiny little soldier.’

‘And winning too,’ L’ọrẹ said, the corner of her lips lifted in a smile.

‘Is that what you call winning? You’re lucky I was here.’

‘I guess,’ L’ọrẹ said. ‘Why did you help though? I mean, it’s not every day the Prince of Oru gets into street fights.’

‘Isn’t it?’ Alawani said, his brows raised.

L’ọrẹ smiled. ‘You know what I mean.’

Alawani shrugged. ‘It wasn’t a fair fight.’ He rose off the ground and stretched his hand to her, ‘And no one deserves to carry the weight of their parent’s crimes.’

‘I guess,’ she said again, taking his hand. They were both branded by the actions of their parents, and while Alawani would never talk about his father’s reign, he knew exactly how she felt. The only difference was that his name protected him from being randomly attacked on the streets while she spent every day trying to survive the hostile place she called home.

‘You didn’t have to move all the way from the sixth ring just for me though,’ L’ọrẹ added.

‘I’d have done anything to get away from the Lord General,’ Alawani said. ‘I’m just glad Command allowed me to join in on this secret little thing you both have going on here.’

‘Thanks anyway,’ L’ọrẹ said with a smile. ‘For showing up . . . and sticking around.’

‘Always,’ he said, his breath visible in the chilly air. ‘You know that.’

She noticed the single bead of sweat that trailed from his neatly carved hairline past his bushy eyebrows to his prominent cheekbones.

‘What?’ He chuckled after a moment of silence. ‘Is there something on my face?’

Only then did she realize she’d been staring at him, watching the sweat bead get lost in his trimmed dark beard.

His smile widened, and she saw a glimpse of the dimple on his left cheek. She blinked to pull her mind back to the present.

She shook her head gently, her braids swaying softly.

His eyes crinkled at the edges, and the corners of his lips turned upwards. She loved – no, not loved: liked. She liked his smile. She was staring again. This time, she noticed the full shape of his lips, the soft pink shades that coloured where his lips parted, the –

‘Ouch!’ she cried out, rubbing her arm where he’d playfully punched her.

His charming smile broadened, and a deep laugh erupted from him. His brown eyes sparkled, and she almost got lost in them again.

She turned her smile into a deep frown and moved closer to him, her hands tensed in tight fists. As expected, his voice deepened with concern, thinking she was upset – perfect. He carefully reached for her face, and she punched him in the stomach, laughing hysterically. He bent over, half-laughing and choking.

‘Too slow!’ she said, catching her breath.

When he didn’t stop coughing, she bent low to lift his face, and he lunged at her. He wrapped his hands firmly around her waist and lifted her off the ground.

‘Say sorry!’ he said, grunting under her weight as she wiggled her legs in the air, struggling to get free.

‘Never!’ she laughed.

‘Then you’re never getting down!’

‘I will bite you!’

‘You can try!’

They roared with laughter as she squirmed around in his arms, trying to pry them open. The more she moved, the tighter his grip was. His brawny arms were locked tight, and

she could feel his muscles flex as she rubbed against them, trying to get free.

But they were just friends. The best of friends. She always had to remind herself of this every time she caught her thoughts wandering too far. Recently, she’d needed the reminder more often than not. Maybe five or six times a day, but who was counting?

Finally, Alawani dropped her slowly. Her body pressed against his as he eased her feet to the ground. The moonlight shone above them like a spotlight, dimming everything around them, and for a moment, his face was the only thing she saw. Her chest moved with his as they both strained for air. The feel of the ground beneath her snapped her back, and she pulled out of his embrace, pursing her lips together and looking anywhere but at him. When she dared to glance at him, his eyes shot away from hers, and he cleared his throat. Her cheeks flushed, and she could feel her heart race much faster than she could breathe.

She looked away again. ‘I’ve got to get home,’ she said, heading for the stairs.

Every step away from him hurt more than every blow she’d endured tonight. She wanted to stay, to get lost in his arms, in his eyes, under the dark of night. With him, she was safe. With him, she wasn’t L’ọrẹ the coward’s daughter or L’ọrẹ the exiled one. But if she tried to break that unspoken rule between them and he didn’t feel the same way, she’d never recover from it. She just wouldn’t. She glanced back to see him climbing up the stairs after her. She broke into a run, removing herself from him and the thoughts that lingered, hoping that by the time he caught up with her, she’d have recovered from whatever spell he’d cast on her. They were nothing more than friends. That was already more than she could have hoped for.

The crown is immortal. It is the head that wears it that rots. The crown of Oru sits and shines atop the head of the sovereign its cone-shaped top rimmed with strings of golden cowries like a curtain that shields its wearer from the common eye. The one who wears the crown fuels its eternal essence with their own soul. Still, the question that keeps the kingdom awake in the dead of night remains . . . WHO WILL SEAT THE GILDED THRONE ?

Ìlú-

Ọba – The Capital City

First Ring, Kingdom of Oru

ALAWANI

Alawani’s title as the prince of Oru meant nothing, and his people never let him forget it. His sisters bore the same burden, but they seemed to carry it much better than he did. The problem was that Alawani was always made to feel special. His father had married eight wives in search of a son, only for Alawani to be born by the late king’s first wife a few years before his death. His three half-sisters might as well be strangers to him, with how adamantly his mother kept him away from them. For he was different, she’d often reminded him. He was a gift from the gods, destined for greatness, a sun among a sea of stars.

Many first suns ago, the title had meant something; he’d have inherited the crown upon his father’s death. But since the time of the first High Priest, everything had changed. Passing the crown from father to son was too dangerous, creating power struggles within families and hoarding precious agbára within one bloodline. Now, the gods chose. When the king died, a High Priest was chosen to take his throne as Lord Regent. The next king would be the firstborn child of that regent, whose wives were selected from each ring of the kingdom.

For Alawani, this meant any respect he was shown was either to honour his father, the late king, or to acknowledge his wealth. But wealth didn’t mean much in the capital city of Oru, which was full of royals from many bloodlines and merchants with more gold than they knew what to do with. So Alawani often had to resort to the only thing he truly inherited from his father – his agbára.

Only a handful of people in the kingdom were more powerful than he was when wielding agbára: the Lord Regent’s children. And he’d grown up with all of them; one in particular he’d called a friend, brother even. But that was a very long time ago. Now, he had only one friend worthy of the title, and there she was, sneaking into her father’s house, hoping to avoid the confrontation that she’d have to deal with the moment he realized she’d been out of the house and fighting with thugs. Again. He smiled as she waved at him, and he waited until her shadow disappeared from the window, then turned back towards the capital in search of the man who could put a stop to the attacks.

It wasn’t often that he had to wield the power the gods gave him in a way that terrified people, but with a name that meant nothing, a title with no authority, and the life of a commoner, the fear that gripped those who crossed him when he wielded his agbára as the gods intended was enough to give him a sliver of respect. That was how he came to an agreement with the Underlord of the capital city. As he approached Baálẹ` -Ikú’s den, swarms of thugs hovered around the entrance, the air filled with the stench of palm wine fermented past the stage where it was sweet.

‘Ahan, Ọmọ’ba, na you be dat? Wetin bring you come this side?’ a voice called out above the drumming and singing. Alawani ignored the man but lit his agbára, allowing his power to flow into his hands, getting brighter with each step

until he reached the door. The man before him was a mountain of muscle, and he let out a low rumble in his throat as he spotted the prince’s glowing hands.

Alawani spoke first. ‘I’m here to see Baálẹ` -Ikú. He is expecting me.’

‘Liar,’ the mountain said in a voice so low Alawani thought he felt the earth tremble.

‘Let me in,’ he said again, allowing his agbára’s heat to flow out of him, warming the air around them.

The mountain did the same, then spat at him, ‘You have no power here. Not here or anywhere else in this kingdom. Go back to playing pretend in your borrowed palace.’

Alawani hadn’t wanted another fight. No. But he did need to confront the man responsible for those who attacked his L’ọrẹ. It had been many first suns since he first met the coward’s daughter. Even back then, he quickly realized the horrors she endured at the hands of anyone who was itching for a fight, courtesy of her association to the man who raised her. Since Baba-Ìtàn stopped leaving their home altogether, she was the next best target. And so Alawani made a deal with Baálẹ` -Ikú. Knowing he couldn’t always be there to protect her, he paid the Underlord and his men a hefty fee every blood moon to protect her. So imagine his surprise on seeing the skull tattoo of death that marked the Baálẹ` ’s men as they burned and fought his L’ọrẹ.

Alawani felt his blood boil as the memory of her injuries flashed in his mind. ‘I’ll show you power,’ Alawani said as he slammed his glowing palm into the mountain’s chest, burning through the layers of metal and cloth.

The man screamed as his flesh simmered and shoved Alawani off with his entire body. Alawani flung out a few feet into the sand. The music stopped, and the compound stilled.

The men around him responded quickly, pushing off

the women that danced on their laps and picking up their weapons.

Alawani rose to his feet, quickly regaining composure. ‘Baálẹ` -Ikú, come outside now!’ he shouted at the top of his lungs.

The Baálẹ` did not show, so Alawani boiled the sand beneath their feet. As the heat from his agbára flowed out of him and pulled on the molten fire beneath the ground, everyone began to scream.

Some managed to stand their ground, forming energyignited blasts to launch at him with their agbára.

He raised an eyebrow. ‘Do you want to bet that you can launch those attacks before I sink you into the fire beneath your feet?’

‘Stop this nonsense right now,’ came a call from the doorway. There stood a man much slimmer and shorter than Alawani, and around him were women who wore bronze armours moulded to their bodies and short leather skirts adorned with cowries around their waists.

Alawani watched as the man they called Baálẹ` -Ikú, the Lord of Death, cooled a patch of ground, using his agbára to draw the heat into himself, and walked the straight line that led right to Alawani. ‘You should have knocked,’ Baálẹ` -Ikú said, chuckling as sparks of light crackled around his glowing arms, ‘I would have welcomed you with open arms. Why do you bring a fight to my doorstep, Prince of Oru?’

Alawani had not even broken a sweat, and he could see from the beads soaking the man’s forehead that his little act of confidence in the face of Alawani’s agbára was taking a toll on him.

‘Your men broke our agreement. They attacked L’ọrẹ.’ Alawani could feel the steam rising from his hands as his blood boiled over. ‘You promised you would keep her safe.’

Baálẹ` -Ikú took a step back, and the women around him ignited their agbára.

‘I’ll handle it. You know me,’ he said, dragging his words. ‘There are many men under my command; maybe if you doubled the payment, we could both avoid this kind of unpleasantness.’

‘You did this to bargain with me? They could’ve killed her,’ Alawani shouted, then turned around, eyeing the men still standing. ‘Where are the ones who did this?’

‘As I have said, the boys are mine to command, Ọmọ’ba. Leave now, and we can still do business together, albeit at a newly negotiated price that works for us both.’

Alawani could see the fear he’d predicted in all their eyes. All except Baálẹ` -Ikú stood with breaths held. Even with their glowing hands and weapons poised to fight, if they thought they could win, they’d have attacked already. He inhaled a deep breath and lunged at the women on both sides of the Baálẹ` , sending them flying against the house with energy blasts. As Baálẹ` -Ikú raised his hands, lightning sparked in the sky above; he pulled on the energy and shot a bolt at the prince. Alawani crashed to the ground in agony as the energy raged through his body. He remained crouched as Baálẹ` -Ikú laughed over him, welcoming the cheers from his men. As the Baálẹ` glanced away, Alawani jumped up and grabbed his wrists where his signature skull tattoo was inked into his skin and burned until his flesh began to char. As the man screamed, Alawani shouted so all the men could hear him, ‘The deal was money for protection. Now it’s your life for her protection. Touch her again and die.’

He turned to face the scattering crowd. Now this was fear. This he could work with. He wiped the sweat from his brow and walked out of the compound.

Alawani had just stepped off the bridge connecting the capital city to the royal island when a figure approached him. He couldn’t be certain, but he thought he felt the weight of their eyes upon him. He looked at his time beads. Three past midnight. Nothing good happened this late at night, so he ducked into an alleyway, quiet and empty, lit only by the moon, hoping the figure hadn’t noticed him disappearing. The footsteps got quicker, and he snaked through the alley until he reached a dead end. Trapped by high walls, he ignited his agbára and waited until the person walked into the light from his glowing palms. A maiden. A temple maiden. His heart stopped.

Before him was a young woman as beautiful as the night itself. When she looked at him, it felt like he was looking into the depth of the river he had just crossed. She wore the familiar blood-red ensemble, a fitted embroidered bodice that revealed her curves, while a flowing skirt of iridescent silk trailed behind her. Her hair was so dark that only the threads of gold in each braid allowed him to see where they started and stopped. And when she spoke, chills ran down his spine, and he could feel his heart failing.

‘Prince Alawani, son of our late king Aláàfin Ọlátúnjí.’

Together, Alawani and the maiden echoed, ‘May his soul find the city of light,’ as was customary to proclaim after the name of the dead was mentioned. The words had poured out of him without a second thought.

The maiden continued, not acknowledging his participation, ‘And son of our Royal Mother, Ì y áà fin Olor ì Atinú k ẹ´ . The gods of the sun and sands call you to fulfil your destiny. They have spoken, and the High Priest of the Holy Order of the Sun Temple has confirmed the call. You are to be chosen from among many, blessed to be one of the Called, a priest of the Order.’

The maiden pulled out a string of white coral beads and stepped closer to him. Alawani backed away from her.

‘No,’ he burst out.

She tilted her head, and somehow, the deep frown lines creased across her face did not make her any less beautiful. She exhaled slowly, as though running out of patience with him, and repeated her words again.

‘No,’ Alawani said, interrupting her.

She snapped, ‘The gods do not ask your permission. They command, and you obey. You have been called,’ she said, holding up the beads. ‘Come here and take this. This is your fate.’

‘No one of royal blood has ever been called to be a priest of the Holy Order. Not since the day of the First Sun. It is forbidden.’

‘Who are you to tell the gods what is forbidden?’

‘Does your Order not claim that the gods forbid the crown to pass down from generation to generation within the same family lines? Is cutting off all connection to past royals not the reason why the Holy Order picks a new High Priest to sire a new heir every time a sovereign dies? I may not know much about what goes on within that temple, but I know that this should not be possible. A prince in the Holy Order? It has never been done.’

‘The gods decide what is forbidden, and they have called you.’

‘I said no,’ Alawani said, moving further away from her. ‘Tell the gods, the High Priest, and my grandfather.’ Alawani’s grandfather no longer held the titles of High Priest and Lord Regent – which he gained after the gods called him nearly seventy-six first suns ago – but remained a force to be reckoned with in the temple. ‘Tell them you asked, and I said no.’

‘Lord Regent Babátúndé confirmed your call, Prince of Oru. Your grandfather had nothing to do with it.’

Alawani scoffed, ‘You want me to believe that the former High Priest of the Sun Temple had no influence over those called to join his Order?’

The maiden sighed again, and this time, when she spoke, she did so in a low, even tone as those recalling the words of another. ‘Every decade since the day of the First Sun, many like you have been called to the Red Stone to return their agbára to the gods so that they might have a greater purpose. Today, you have been called to become a conduit for the gods of the sun and sands.’

‘I will not die for your gods.’

The maiden tossed the beads at his chest. ‘Do you know how many boys would give their lives for the honour of being called? How many will drop everything they have ever known or loved to even be considered worthy of the Order? You’re right. No one as ungrateful and ignorant as you are deserves to be an Àlùfáà of the Holy Order, yet here we are.’

‘If you don’t think I should do this, then why are you here?’ Alawani said, watching as the poise and grace with which the maiden had walked up to him faded with every word she spoke in anger.

‘It is not my place to question the will of the gods, nor is it yours, no matter how unprecedented their decisions may seem.’

‘Who are you?’ Alawani asked cautiously.

‘I am Milúà, daughter of Ìyá-Ayé, sword of the Sun Temple and spear of the crown. And I am your maiden.’ Then she added quietly, ‘Unfortunately.’

‘Unfortunately?’ he said, closing the gap between them.

She reached out in a quick move and cut him with a sharp blade. He didn’t see where she pulled the blade from or where she returned it to, but a thin line of blood blossomed on his arms, and he flinched away from her.