The Great Hall smelled of incense and iron. Candles flickered against the high walls, casting shadows that danced like restless spirits. Elders and kings from across the lands had taken their seats, robes brushing the polished floor, staffs tapping in quiet rhythm. The Royal Guard's fallen blood was still spoken of in hushed tones, and the absence of Maame Abena weighed heavier than any storm.
"This… is not ordinary," murmured an elder, voice trembling. "To strike the Supreme King's own convoy… and take a woman. Who dares?"
The murmurs multiplied, weaving through the hall like a thick fog. Questions collided with fear. The Royal blood spilled, the sacred twin secrets, the violation of Abrem Coast—all pressed like a weight upon every throne and council seat.
I observed in silence, listening to the whispers, the speculations, the barely contained panic. Then, the doors opened, moving slowly, deliberately. The hall went still.
The Chief Priest entered. Draped in ceremonial white and gold, beads clinking softly with each step, his eyes reflected knowledge older than the oldest stone in the palace. His presence demanded silence. Even the eldest king ceased his murmuring.
The Chief Priest bowed deeply, then raised his hands. He began chanting. The sound was low at first, like the wind through ancient trees, then rose, layering rhythm and power into the hall.
The chants spoke of calamity, of angered ancestors, of Royal blood that had been spilled and touched the earth. Each syllable trembled with warning:
"When the blood of the twins touches sand, the secrets of the palace stir. What is buried cannot sleep, what is hidden cannot remain. The gods are watching, the land is listening."
Every council member shivered. The air thickened. The scent of burning incense burned deeper into our noses.
The Chief Priest walked slowly between the seats, voice rising, proverbs laced in every sentence:
"Royal blood, when spilled, becomes a messenger. The twin who was thought lost—yet alive—shouts across the winds. The matron, Esi Nyarko, is alive, not dead, as some believed. And the one who nurtured Akosua, Maame Abena, has been taken. If she does not return, the gods will strike the house of kings."
The Supreme King's hand tightened on the armrest of his throne. His voice cut through the chants:
"Priest, tell me plainly! Which Royal blood is this? Which twin? Who has caused this?"
The Chief Priest lifted his gaze. His eyes burned with ancient fire.
"The twins you speak of… the ones born under the hidden covenant… must be found. The twin's blood, spilt in negligence or malice, awakens powers that slumber only for obedience and caution. The matron Esi Nyarko is alive, not dead, as some believed. Maame Abena's life is now in peril. She must return within the cycle of the sun's turning, or calamity will visit not just the house, but the land itself."
The words fell like hammers. Silence followed, heavier than any drumbeat.
The Supreme King's voice was ice: "Priest… 24 hours. You speak of the gods' wrath if Maame Abena is not returned. Is this what you say?"
"I have spoken. I have spoken," the Chief Priest intoned, stepping back, chanting still, beads clattering in rhythm with his warnings. "The gods are displeased. Royal blood must be honored. Twins of power must be reconciled. The matron lives, Maame Abena is held. The hour is short."
And with that, he left, his chants fading into the vast corridors, leaving a stillness that pressed on the council like a living thing.
The Supreme King leaned forward, his eyes dark pools of thought. Every council member stared, uncertain whether to speak or breathe. The Royal Guard's fallen body lay not just as a casualty—it was a symbol. The attack had been precise, calculated, and now the gods themselves seemed to demand justice.
"We have 24 hours," the Supreme King finally said, voice low, rumbling. "Do you understand the weight of this? One more delay, one misstep, and not just the matron, but all our houses will suffer. The gods do not forgive in whispers—they punish in storms."
An elder cleared his throat, trembling: "Your Majesty… how do we proceed? The attackers are not ordinary criminals—they are disciplined. They knew the convoy, the timing…"
"They knew the palace," the Supreme King interrupted sharply. "They knew its shadows, its corridors, its weaknesses. And they struck without hesitation. That is not chance. That is design. And design… is dangerous."
The council was silent again. Fear and uncertainty roamed freely among them.
"I want every guard doubled," he continued. "Search parties along every road, river, and path. Spies activated, informants summoned, the lands questioned. Every family, every household must be accounted for. And every clock watched. Nothing leaves the kingdom without my knowledge."
A younger king spoke cautiously, "Your Majesty… should we call for reinforcements from the allied lands?"
The Supreme King's gaze was ice. "Not yet. Let us see the first movement of those who dared challenge us. Let them reveal themselves."
He rose slowly, eyes scanning the hall, landing on the Royal blood stains on the floor—blood that had awakened something older than our councils. His jaw tightened.
"Maame Abena… she is strong. But even she is not beyond reach. Whoever planned this… whoever struck at the heart of this kingdom… they must not think the gods silent."
The council nodded, the weight of their leader's words settling into their bones.
He turned to the youngest guard captain. "Send messengers to the surrounding provinces. Inform every ally, every chief. The gods have spoken. The twin blood has been disturbed. The matron Esi Nyarko is alive. Maame Abena must return… or face consequences beyond men's reckoning."
"Yes, Your Majesty," the captain replied, bowing deeply before rushing out.
The Supreme King returned to his seat, leaning forward, palms pressed to his knees. His eyes closed briefly, feeling the pulse of the land, the stirrings of divine anger, the weight of twin blood awakened.
The Chief Priest's words echoed still: "The gods are watching, the land is listening."
Outside, the wind shifted. Leaves rustled violently. The sun dipped behind clouds, casting long shadows that stretched like dark fingers across the palace grounds. It was as if the land itself was holding its breath.
The Supreme King finally opened his eyes, piercing through every face in the hall.
"Time is short," he said, voice low but carrying like a drumbeat. "Not one of us can falter. The gods will not wait. The twins' blood must be reconciled, the matron returned. And the offenders… they will learn that no secret, no treachery, no violence escapes the eye of the throne. Not in this world, not in the next."
The council bowed, understanding fully the peril that now loomed. This was no ordinary threat. This was divine displeasure, ancestral fury, and royal violation intertwined into one: the consequence of blood spilt, secrets disturbed, and a guardian's life taken.
By the time the sun had fully set, the palace was transformed into a hive of strategy. Spies moved through the shadows. Scouts rode the winds. Every corner of the kingdom was alive with watchfulness. The Supreme King, alone in his chambers, placed his hand over the Royal blood on the floor, feeling the weight of generations beneath him.
The gods had spoken. The blood had awakened. And the first strike had been made.
One thing was certain: Maame Abena must return. And if she did not… the wrath of the ancestors, the gods, and the kingdom itself would not be delayed.
And thus, the hunt began.