Blood on the throne

Episode 8: The Blade and the Crown

Scene 1: The Assassination of Chief Momodu

The night was still, thick with silence. The moon hung bright in the sky, casting pale light over Chief Momodu’s sprawling estate. The compound was a fortress, surrounded by towering walls and guarded by men who had sworn loyalty not out of honor, but out of fear.

Beyond the perimeter, Jagaban crouched in the underbrush with six of his men, their dark clothing blending seamlessly with the shadows. His keen eyes scanned the guards’ movements—the lazy way they patrolled, the predictable gaps in their routes.

“Two at the gate,” he murmured. “Take them quietly.”

His men moved with practiced ease, slipping through the darkness like wraiths. The two guards stood chatting idly, oblivious to the death approaching. In one swift motion, blades pierced their throats. Their bodies shuddered, then fell into silence.

Jagaban signaled forward. The assassins moved through the compound, avoiding lantern-lit paths, keeping to the darkness. Dogs sniffed the air but did not bark—Jagaban had ensured their silence hours before, bribing a servant to slip a sleeping draught into their meals.

Inside the grand estate, guards stationed near the chief’s chambers were dispatched just as quickly. Two men stood outside the doors, their spears crossed in boredom. They barely had time to register movement before knives slid between their ribs, silencing them forever.

Jagaban stepped into the chamber.

It was extravagant—too extravagant. The room reeked of indulgence, from the silk-draped bed to the gold-inlaid tapestries. A faint scent of incense hung in the air, masking the stench of spilled wine and sweat.

Chief Momodu lay sprawled across the bed, his heavy body rising and falling with deep, careless breaths. A man who had taken whatever he wanted, crushed whoever opposed him, and believed himself untouchable.

Jagaban approached, his blade gleaming in the dim light. He pressed it against the chief’s throat, savoring the moment.

Then the man’s eyes snapped open.

For a fleeting second, fear twisted his features. His mouth opened, but no scream came—only a choked gasp. His body convulsed violently.

Then, nothing.

Jagaban frowned. He hadn’t moved his blade. One of his men stepped forward, checking the body. A pause. Then a nod.

“He died of fright.”

Jagaban exhaled sharply, his lips curling into a smirk. “Coward.”

There was no need to waste another second. With a swift gesture, he led his men out. No alarms were raised, no panicked cries followed. By the time the first servant would find the chief’s lifeless body, Jagaban and his assassins would be nothing more than ghosts in the night.

Scene 2: Lucian’s Meeting with the High Chief

The morning sun spilled through the arched windows of Lucian’s chambers, bathing the room in gold. The scent of parchment and ink mixed with the faint aroma of the gardens outside.

Lucian sat at a polished mahogany table, scanning the scroll before him—a detailed report of his upcoming coronation. The words blurred slightly as his mind drifted. His rule was beginning, yet something within him felt restless.

The door opened, and the High Chief entered, bowing deeply. “My prince, may your days be long.”

Lucian gestured for him to sit. “Please, High Chief. No need for formalities between us.”

The elder settled into his chair, his eyes studying Lucian with quiet wisdom. “Your coronation draws near,” he said. “The kingdom is eager, but you must remember—anticipation breeds expectation. And expectation breeds scrutiny.”

Lucian nodded, his fingers drumming against the table. “I know the weight of the crown. But tell me, High Chief, how will the ceremony proceed? I want to be prepared.”

The High Chief leaned forward, stroking his beard. “The procession will begin at dawn. The people will line the streets, offering prayers and blessings as you ride to the ancestral shrine. There, you will present yourself before the spirits of our forefathers, seeking their guidance.”

Lucian listened intently.

“After the rituals, you will be crowned in the Grand Hall,” the High Chief continued. “The nobles, elders, and warriors will swear their loyalty before you ascend the throne.” He paused, his voice lowering slightly. “But not all who kneel are loyal.”

Lucian’s gaze sharpened. “You suspect someone?”

The High Chief sighed. “In times of change, there are always those who see opportunity. Even now, some question your claim. Some whisper of Darius.”

Lucian clenched his jaw. His half-brother had never openly challenged him, but the tension between them had always been unspoken, simmering beneath the surface.

“What of Panseke?” Lucian asked, shifting the subject. “Their raids have been relentless. Should we impose a leader of our own?”

The High Chief’s expression darkened. “Panseke understands only strength. Negotiation is futile.”

Lucian’s voice was firm. “Then I will ensure they understand.”

The elder nodded approvingly. “A king must be decisive.”

They spoke for hours, discussing strategy, alliances, and the burdens of leadership. By the time the High Chief rose to leave, the sun had climbed higher, casting long shadows across the room.

He bowed deeply. “May wisdom guide your rule, my prince.”

Lucian watched him go, his mind weighed down with the expectations placed upon him.

Scene 3: Lucian and Darius

Lucian stepped into the palace courtyard, needing fresh air after the weighty discussions. The scent of dust and sweat filled the morning air as warriors sparred in the training grounds. The clang of steel against steel rang out, a rhythmic battle song.

“Does my brother see a ghost?”

Lucian turned to find Darius leaning against a pillar, arms crossed, an infuriating smirk tugging at his lips.

“What do you want?” Lucian asked, his tone flat.

Darius pushed off the pillar and took a slow step forward. “It’s funny. You have time for meetings with the High Chief, yet not with your own brother.”

“There’s nothing to talk about.”

Darius tilted his head, amusement flickering in his eyes. “Still so cold, Lucian.” He glanced at the training grounds. “You should spend more time here. You’re about to be crowned, but are you ready to defend that throne?”

Lucian’s jaw tightened. “I choose my battles wisely, Darius.”

Darius chuckled, the sound low and knowing. “Ah, but some battles choose you.”

For a moment, Lucian said nothing. Their rivalry had never been spoken of outright, but it had always been there, woven into the very fabric of their existence. Their mothers had been rivals. Their childhood had been marked by unspoken competitions. And now, with the throne at stake, the tension between them had never been stronger.

Lucian finally turned away. “If you’re looking for a fight, take it elsewhere.”

Darius didn’t move, but his voice followed Lucian as he walked away. “You’ll see soon enough, brother. Some fights can’t be avoided.”

Lucian didn’t respond. He knew Darius was watching him.

Waiting.

For the right moment to strike.

As steel clashed in the training grounds, Lucian couldn’t shake the feeling that this was only the beginning.

End of Episode 8.