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POV: Adeola, Yemi, Damilola, Moremi
Forging the Blade
POV: Yemi
Yemi's voice rang across the clearing, sharp as steel.
"Again."
Adeola raised his sword, sweat clinging to his brow, legs aching beneath him.
Strike. Parry. Step. Breathe.
They'd been at it since dawn.
Yemi watched him closely — not just his form, but the fury in his eyes. The same look Yemi once carried, years ago, back when his mother still screamed in his dreams and his hands wouldn't stop shaking.
Now, he saw it in Adeola: that storm of grief, guilt, and buried strength.
"You're improving," Yemi said, after Adeola finally landed a clean counter. "But it's not just the sword you must master."
Adeola glanced up, panting. "Then what?"
"Yourself," Yemi said quietly. "Master that… and no blade can stop you."
---
The Dream That Burned
POV: Adeola
That night, the flames returned.
He stood in the midst of fire, but not as he was now.
Smaller. Helpless.
A baby cried behind him. A man — face smeared with blood — held the child and fled through the chaos. Screams filled the air. Somewhere, a woman wailed.
"Don't leave him!"
"ADEOLA!"
The name echoed through smoke and flame.
And then — silence.
Adeola woke with a jolt, chest heaving, drenched in sweat. The candle beside his cot flickered, but his heart raced faster than the wind outside.
He stared at the ceiling, unable to shake the vision.
It wasn't just a dream.
It felt too real. Like something locked in a place he wasn't meant to reach — yet.
He whispered his own name.
As if trying to remember who he truly was.
---
Wounds Unspoken
POV: Damilola
The moonlight spilled through the trees as Damilola sat beside Moremi near the edge of the training hill. They watched the firelight dance in the distance, listening to the faint laughter of recruits below.
But Damilola wasn't smiling.
Her hand traced the small knife at her hip, the one she never slept without.
Moremi glanced at her. "You okay?"
Damilola was quiet for a moment. Then:
"Do you ever wonder if your pain makes you weak?"
"No," Moremi replied without hesitation. "I wonder how I survived it."
Damilola exhaled shakily, eyes far away.
"I haven't told anyone," she began. "Not even Chief Alade knows all of it."
Moremi waited.
"My father used to beat us. My mother, my sisters… we were his prisoners. When the empire rose, he sold us like they were gifts. Gave me and my sister to Durojaiye — a monster with a uniform."
Moremi's breath caught.
Damilola's voice broke. "He… he hurt her. For months. And I just watched. Until one day, I found a shard of glass. I waited until he was distracted. I stabbed him in the throat."
She looked down at her trembling hands.
"He survived. My sister didn't."
Silence stretched between them.
Moremi reached over and wrapped her arms around her, holding her tight.
"I'm so sorry," she whispered.
"I wanted to die after that," Damilola admitted. "But I didn't. I wandered. Hid. For two years… until Chief Alade found me. He didn't ask who I was. He just said, 'You're safe now.'"
Moremi's eyes shimmered. "You are."
And for the first time in years, Damilola believed it.
---
Marching Shadows
POV: Adeola
The next morning, the legion gathered again.
Yemi gave the orders. Bayo sharpened his blade in silence. Femi checked supplies while Damilola stood, strong as stone, beside Moremi — the bond between them quiet but unbreakable.
Chief Alade addressed the room.
"The empire isn't waiting," he said. "And neither can we. Our scouts report movements. Wale's forces are closer than we thought."
Adeola stiffened at the name. He didn't know the man yet, but something in his gut twisted every time he heard it.
Chief Alade looked around the room.
"Some of you carry scars you haven't shared. But it's not your pain that makes you fragile. It's your silence. We are no longer survivors—we are a rebellion."
Adeola glanced at Yemi, who gave him a faint nod. Then at Moremi, her eyes unreadable.
His dream still lingered in the back of his mind.
Who was that man? That woman?
Was that… his real family?
---
Closing the Gap
POV: Wale
Wale stared at the burning remains of a border camp. Rebels had been here — the tracks were clear, their retreat recent.
He knelt beside the footprints in the dirt.
Small. Light. Swift.
"You're getting bolder," he muttered under his breath.
Behind him, Ojora officers stood still.
"Move forward," Wale ordered. "We close the gap before they disappear again."
As the soldiers obeyed, Wale stood silently, watching the trees sway.
Something called to him.
A feeling.
A name he couldn't quite grasp.
He didn't know the rebels had felt his shadow.
He didn't know that just beyond the tree line —
his sister stood.
> The Lost King © 2025 by (Idris Bilal Adavize).
This is an original work protected by copyright. No part of this story may be reproduced or used in any form without the author's written permission