PRINCESS ADJOA .
The Supreme Palace never truly slept.
Not since the King decided that its walls would guard not just the living, but secrets too. And tonight, those secrets had names: Akosua and Maame Abena Owusu.
Adjoa's steps echoed lightly against the polished marble floor as she approached the private wing where the King had stationed them. Every guard she passed offered nothing but a slight nod. No explanations. No questions. She knew why. The King's orders were absolute: anyone who touched or approached these two without his sanction would answer with more than their lives.
Adjoa paused at the threshold. A heavy, gilded door separated her from them. Inside, she could hear voices—calm, deliberate—but not the soft breathing of a child. Akosua's voice, steady, confident, carried a presence built from years of commanding an empire. Maame Abena's tone countered it, gentle yet firm, guiding, protecting. They were not small. They were not powerless. And yet, under the King's protection, even giants bowed quietly.
Adjoa's pulse raced. The urge to push the door open, to confront, to question, to assert herself—so human—fought against the steel logic she had trained herself to obey. She did not have access. Not tonight. Not without the King's express permission.
"Princess," a soft voice came from behind. She turned to see Kwame Bediako, his eyes dark with worry.
"They are safe," he whispered. "For now. But the King is not idle. He watches. He waits."
"I know," Adjoa said, forcing her calm. Her gaze shifted back to the door. "But knowing doesn't mean I like it."
Kwame gave no reply. He never did. He only nodded, a subtle acknowledgment that they were both caught in the King's game.
Her mind raced. Every ledger she had dissolved, every name erased, every secret buried at Nyame Nhyira—it had all been precise. Yet the Supreme King had found a thread: Akosua herself. Alive. Present. Indisputable. Some truths could never be erased.
The door creaked open, and the King stepped into the corridor, calm, unyielding, eyes sharp, measuring every movement.
"Princess Adjoa," he said softly, but his presence pressed down like a weight on her chest. "You wish to ask questions, do you not?"
Adjoa's jaw tightened. She had rehearsed this moment countless times. "Your Majesty," she said carefully, "I only wish to ensure Akosua is safe and unthreatened."
The King's lips curved faintly. "Interesting. You wish to check on the woman whose existence defies history."
Adjoa's pulse leapt. "She is under protection," she said, voice steady, "and Maame Abena Owusu—"
"Do not speak her name lightly," the King interrupted. His eyes, sharp as a hawk's, locked on hers. "She is under my protection, and under my rules. You have no access unless I grant it."
"Yes, Your Majesty," Adjoa replied, bowing, but the fire in her chest did not dim. Denial was expected. Resistance, acceptable. What she had not expected was the quiet, lethal weight behind his restraint.
The King gestured toward the chamber. "You may remain in the corridor. Observe if you wish. But you will not speak to her. You will not touch her. You will not interfere."
Adjoa's fists curled at her sides. Her careful orchestration had to account for this: protecting Akosua while obeying the King's limitations. Every move had to be calculated, precise, and faster than anyone else's thought.
She stayed in the shadows, watching. Akosua's presence was calm, composed, commanding. Maame Abena spoke softly, correcting a posture, adjusting a garment, whispering instructions to navigate the palace's invisible dangers. Akosua nodded, moving with the quiet authority of a woman who had once built an empire and survived its collapse. The King's protection could shield her, but only temporarily.
Adjoa's mind ticked. The King had called her here for a reason. Always a reason. And now she realized: their presence in the palace was not only for protection—it was a test.
A shift behind her made her spin. Kwame Bediako extended a folded piece of paper.
"From the King," he whispered. "Instructions. Clarity. Caution."
Adjoa unfolded it. One line:
"The woman exists. The witness exists. All who see must be accounted for. Do not falter."
Her pulse surged. The King's trap was subtle. He did not question. He did not demand. He merely stated fact. And facts, when observed closely, were dangerous.
Time stretched. Adjoa remained in the corridor, every shadow scrutinized, every movement in the chamber analyzed. Every step in the palace echoed like a drumbeat of consequence.
Then Akosua moved, turning with precision, assessing her surroundings as one trained to command, to survive, to lead. Maame Abena's voice cut through softly, guiding, protective, not patronizing.
Adjoa's heart clenched. She wanted to step in, to offer protection, to be the shield. But she remembered the warning etched in steel: access is not hers. Not yet.
And then she saw it: the King's shadow stretching across the corridor. Moving closer. Watching. Measuring. Testing.
Adjoa froze. Every instinct screamed danger. She had been trained to read the palace, to anticipate, to act. In that instant, she understood: the Supreme King was assessing her judgment, her loyalty, her control.
"Princess Adjoa," the King's voice floated down the corridor, calm, deliberate. "Do you see how quickly control can shift? How one misstep can unravel the most careful planning?"
"I see, Your Majesty," Adjoa replied, chin high, voice steady.
"Good," he said. "Then remember this: the past is not dead. It breathes. It watches. And those who protect it… must understand their limits."
The words landed like a hammer. Akosua, a woman who had rebuilt an empire and faced betrayal, and Maame Abena, the woman who guided her, were delicate threads in a web the King could unravel with a word. One wrong move, and everything collapsed.
Adjoa weighed every possibility. How could she keep Akosua hidden? How could she protect Maame Abena while obeying the King's command? Every path was dangerous. Every choice, a test.
Then, slowly, the King's shadow retreated. He did not leave. He allowed her to breathe, but the lesson remained sharp, clear, unyielding.
Adjoa exhaled. Controlled. She had survived this encounter. But she knew: this was only the beginning.
Outside, the palace stirred. Guards shifted, corridors hummed with life. But inside, Akosua sat upright, composed, aware, moving with a calculated calm that came from experience, not fragility. Maame Abena's presence steadied her, a guide, a shield, not a crutch.
Adjoa stayed a moment longer, imprinting every detail into memory: every gesture, every glance, every shadow. It might be all she had if the King decided tomorrow that she had failed.
Finally, she slipped back to her chambers. Her plan would evolve. Her moves would adapt. Fast. Deliberate. Deadly precise—like the woman she had become.
Because in the Supreme Palace, one truth remained: no secret, no loyalty, no power is safe from the King's gaze—but neither are they beyond the reach of a Princess who refuses to lose.
And Adjoa would not lose.
Not Akosua. Not Maame Abena Owusu. Not the secrets they carried.
The palace held its breath, and Adjoa's resolve solidified.
Tonight, she would plan. Tomorrow, she would move. The Supreme King might count his steps—but she would count hers faster.
The game had deepened, shadows had thickened, and in the heart of the palace, a Princess waited—ready to outmaneuver destiny itself.