To the onlookers, the guards, the startled maids, and his own sister, Nwadimma, he looked like a man possessed. His gaze was hollow, fixed on a horizon only he could see, searching for the shimring outlines of souls that shouldn’t be there.
That night, no one in the palace slept. They watched from the periphery as their ruler paced the stone corridors like a caged animal, his mind a whirlwind of insecurity and divine revelation.
As the first grey light of dawn touched the horizon, the week-long grace of Keles reached its end.
The transition was violent. One mont, the world was a vibrant, terrifying map of spiritual energy; the next, the "curtain" slamd shut. The brilliant glows and the twin-faced horrors vanished, replaced by the flat, mundane reality of stone walls and morning mist.
For Nwadiebube, the return of his normal sight felt like being struck blind. The only layer of security he had, the ability to see his enemies was gone. He was vulnerable again, a mortal man surrounded by invisible giants.
The court stood paralyzed as the King’s knees buckled. He collapsed onto the dirt of the courtyard, his fingers clawing at the earth. A desperate, broken sound escaped his throat, a plea that chilled the blood of everyone present.
"Please... give it back," he sobbed, his voice cracking. "Please, give the truth-sight back. I need it... Please, don’t leave blind!"
The desperation turned to a frantic, self-destructive mania. Before the guards could react, Nwadiebube raised his trembling hands to his own face, his fingers curling like talons as he began to dig at his eyes, as if he could physically tear away the veil and force the Goddess’s vision to return.
The Princess Intervened "Brother, no!"
Nwadimma moved fast, in a blink she was before the king. Before he could do permanent damage to himself, she surged forward. With a sharp, practiced strike to the side of his neck, she cut through his hysteria.
Nwadiebube’s body went limp instantly. His hands fell away from his face, and his sister caught him before he hit the stones, pulling his head to her chest. The palace fell into a deathly silence, the only sound the heavy breathing of the Princess as she looked at the terrified faces of the court.
The Princess didn’t wait for the shock of the court to settle. She shifted her grip on Nwadiebube’s limp form, her eyes sweeping over the gathered guards and servants like twin blades of ice.
"This is never to leave the palace," she commanded. The weight of her voice anchored the panicked staff; they bowed in unison, a silent pact of secrecy sealed by the terror of the morning.
With a surge of mana, Nwadimma vanished from the courtyard, her silhouette a blur as she descended into the bowels of the royal residence. She didn’t head for the infirmary or the King’s chambers. She headed for the dark.
Her destination was the subterranean sanctuary of Ezinne, the First Death Shaman. Nwadimma had been briefed days prior, Ezinne had confird the touch of Keles upon the King’s soul. But the sight of her brother clawing at his own eyes told a different story. To the Princess, it looked less like a blessing and more like a divine curse designed to hollow a man out from the inside.
Nwadimma disregarded all royal decorum, kicking open the heavy iron-bound gates of the underground ward. Her voice echoed off the damp stone walls, raw with a sister’s desperation.
"Ezinne! Help him!"
Deep within the gloom, amidst the scent of dried herbs and old bone, Ezinne sat in a trance. The intrusion snapped her eyes open. Initially, a flash of irritation crossed the Shaman’s withered features, few dared to disrupt her ditation with such manner.
But as she stepped from her hut and saw the King draped like a broken doll in Nwadimma’s arms, the annoyance vanished, replaced by the sharp, clinical focus.
"Put him down," Ezinne ordered, her voice cutting through the Princess’s panic. In that mont, titles and bloodlines were irrelevant; there was only the healer and the dying light of a King.
She knelt beside Nwadiebube, her hands hovering just inches above his closed eyelids, sensing the residual "burn" of the Goddess’s departure.
Nwadimma watched, her chest heaving with exertion, as Ezinne worked. The Shaman reached into a weathered leather satchel at her waist, withdrawing a handful of grey, unassuming ash. With a rhythmic, low-thrumming chant, she cast the dust into the air.
As the particles drifted toward the King, they ignited, transforming into a constellation of shimring green light. The erald sparks settled over Nwadiebube like a cooling shroud. Almost instantly, the violent tension in his jaw relaxed, and the frantic, pained furrow of his brow smoothed into a deep, drug-like sleep.
Ezinne placed a withered palm against the King’s temple, her eyes fluttering shut as she tasted the residual energy clinging to his skin. Suddenly, her eyes snapped open, sharp and calculating.
"The Lady’s blessing is gone," she murmured, her voice echoing in the damp chamber. She paused, tilting her head as if listening to a whisper from the shadows, then shook her head slowly. "No... not gone. It was never ant to stay. It was a window, not a door. It was ant only to show him what he needed to see before slamming shut."
Having stabilized the King’s spirit, Ezinne finally turned her full attention to the Princess. She stood, smoothing her robes and performing a shallow, respectful bow, a courtesy she had montarily forgotten in the heat of the crisis.
"Princess," Ezinne began, she looked down at the unconscious Nwadiebube, then back at Nwadimma. "Might I ask what happened? What did he see with those divine eyes that broke him so completely?"
Nwadimma shook her head slowly, the flickering torchlight of the underground chamber casting long, jagged shadows across her face. "I have no idea what ca over my brother," she admitted, her voice tight with a mix of exhaustion and fear.
She recounted the night’s horrors to Ezinne: how the King had sprinted through the palace grounds like a man hunted by invisible hounds, his eyes wide and vacant, staring at things that weren’t there. She spoke of the chilling silence that followed, and the visceral, bloody desperation at dawn when he had turned his own fingers into talons against his eyes.
Ezinne listened, her weathered face darkening with every word. She let out a long, heavy sigh that seed to vibrate with the weight of centuries. "It seems the Goddess’s blessing might not have been a gift of comfort for the King," she murmured. "He must have seen sothing... sothing that shattered the very foundation of his reality to leave him in such a state."
Nwadimma’s frown deepened into a look of royal indignation. "You said earlier that the Goddess’s blessing was ant to reveal and help my brother! Why should he suffer for a gift he didn’t even ask for?"
Before the Princess could finish her protest, Ezinne moved with surprising speed. She pressed a finger to her own lips and leveled a stern, commanding gaze at Nwadimma, her voice dropping to a sharp whisper.
"Be silent, child. You must not speak ill of the Goddess," Ezinne warned. "Keles does not deal in ’comfort.’ She deals in Truth. Your brother saw exactly what the Goddess intended for him to see. It is not the fault of the Divine if the mortal mind is too fragile to pay the price for what was revealed."
The reprimand hung heavy in the air. Both won fell into a somber silence, their eyes drawn back to the sleeping King.
Even under the influence of Ezinne’s soothing green light, Nwadiebube was not at peace. His brow remained tightly furrowed, his eyelids twitching as if his mind were still trying to process the image of the two-faced soul and the towering, radiant ghost of Osita. He was a man who knew too much, trapped in a body that could no longer see the very dangers he now knew were real.
Hours passed before the King finally stirred. The hysteria that had claid him before the darkness took over was gone; in its place was a heavy, eerie stillness. He lay there for a mont, his gaze drifting across the familiar carvings of the ceiling, anchored by the grounding scent of cedar and incense.
The heavy thud of the door being pushed open broke the silence. Ezinne and Nwadimma stepped into the room, both freezing mid-stride as their eyes t his.
Ezinne imdiately dropped into a deep, respectful bow. Nwadimma, however, remained upright, her feet rooted to the floor. Her expression was a fragile mask of uncertainty, caught between the duty she owed a king and the love she felt for a brother.
"How are you doing, Brother?" she asked, her voice soft as she moved toward the bedside.
Nwadiebube let the silence hang for a mont, his voice raspy when he finally spoke. "Not so well... but I suspect I will be."
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