The chapter opens with the haunting strains of an ancient melody resonating through the vast desert, a place steeped in an enigmatic, dark power.
Each grain of sand caught the dying light as though the horizon itself bled gold. Every gust of wind stirred the dunes into motion, their shifting forms whispering secrets of battles long buried beneath their endless expanse.
This was Aranbiya, a land where beauty and cruelty walked hand in hand, where the air held a dry bitterness, tinged with the faint metallic tang of iron—a constant reminder of blood spilled on the sands.
The desert was so unforgiving that its heat clung to the skin like a second layer, suffocating and inescapable, as if the desert itself sought to claim all who wandered too far into its grasp.
Here, the mighty Demi gods were brought low. The demi-gods, born of celestial fire and ancient bloodlines, were broken. Their strength, their immortality, their very essence—it was all stolen, repurposed, and sold by humans
Sometimes I tell myself I bypassed this hell and became a princess of this barbaric land. At least, that's the delusion I live by.
We've talked about Benjamin—the storm that shattered everything—and Seven Six, the scar that lingers long after. But to understand them, to understand me, we have to go back. Back to the night I was born.
I wasn't supposed to be born. Not in a world like this, where divinity is a death sentence. But I was born anyway, and my existence became the kingdom's deepest secret."
The desert winds carried more than sand and secrets—they carried the weight of forgotten gods and the whispers of bloodlines long buried. For centuries, the kingdom of Aranbiya had sought to erase its divine heritage, to forsake the power that once coursed through its veins. To be human was to be celebrated; to be divine was to be feared.
But divinity was not so easily erased. It lingered in shadows, in whispers, in the quiet places where power refused to die. And on a fateful night, under the same moon, two daughters were born—one celebrated, the other hidden. One destined for a throne, the other for exile.
And the one destined for exile was me.
The grand birthing chambers of Queen Amara Zai glowed with golden light. Candles flickered in ornate candelabras, their warm glow reflecting off walls draped in silks of crimson and gold. The air was thick with the scent of lavender and jasmine, meant to soothe the laboring queen, but the tension in the room was electric. Courtiers gathered outside the heavy wooden doors, their hushed whispers barely audible over the Queen's cries.
"Breathe, Your Majesty. You're doing wonderfully," said Denah, the head midwife, her voice calm and steady. She held Queen Amara's hand tightly, her grip firm, as if willing the Queen's strength to match her own.
Another midwife, Zainab, approached with a steaming basin of water. "Here, Denah," she said, passing a fresh towel.
Denah nodded. "Good. We're almost there."
Amara's face was a mask of determination as she pushed, her cries reverberating through the chamber. The courtiers outside fell silent, holding their breath in anticipation. The future of the kingdom lay in that room, in the Queen's ability to bring forth an heir.
Finally, Amara let out a final, anguished cry, and the room was filled with the sound of a newborn's first wail. Denah lifted the baby, her face breaking into a smile. "A daughter, Your Majesty. She is perfect."
Amara's sweat-soaked hair clung to her brow as she collapsed back onto the pillows, her chest heaving. "Bahari," she whispered, her voice tinged with exhaustion and joy. "Her name will be Bahari."
The heavy doors creaked open, and King Obiora entered, his expression a mix of pride and tenderness. He approached his wife and child, his broad shoulders softening as he took the tiny baby into his arms. His gaze lingered on her rosy cheeks and clenched fists. "She's perfect," he murmured, pressing a gentle kiss to Amara's forehead. "Our future is secure."
Outside, the courtiers erupted into cheers. The sound of celebration spilled into the chamber as golden light bathed the room, a reflection of the hope and joy that filled the palace.
Deep within the palace, in a hidden chamber far from the golden glow of celebration, a different birth was unfolding.
The room was shadowed, its cold stone walls illuminated only by the faint flicker of a single oil lamp. The air was heavy with the acrid scent of burning herbs, their smoke curling upward like ghostly fingers. Silence hung over the room, broken only by the labored cries of a woman whose pain went unnoticed by the world above.
Adana, the midwife, worked with quiet efficiency, her hands steady as she wiped the woman's brow with a damp cloth. "You're doing well," she murmured, her voice soft but firm. "Almost there."
The woman whimpered, her weak body trembling with effort. Unlike the Queen's chamber, there were no courtiers here, no eager celebrations waiting outside the door. Only shadows and secrets.
With a final, desperate push, the child entered the world. Adana lifted the newborn, her breath catching as her gaze fell on the faint, swirling patterns etched into the baby's eyes—patterns that shimmered faintly in the dim light.
"Such filthy scorching eyes... poor child," Adana whispered, her voice trembling.
Another aide, Chiamaka, hesitated, holding a basin of hot water. Her wide eyes fixed on the baby. "The child must take a name... no?"
Adana nodded slowly, her voice barely audible. "Mablevi," she whispered, the name resonating with quiet power. "Mablevi Hodari. She carries the blood of the gods."
The young mother, her face pale and soaked with sweat, reached weakly for her daughter. "What will... what will become of her?" she rasped, her voice raw with exhaustion and fear.
Before Adana could answer, the door creaked open, and King Obiora stepped into the room. His shadow stretched across the cold stone floor, his face a mask of conflict. He stared at the newborn for a long moment, his expression unreadable.
"Adana," he said finally, his voice low and urgent. "This must remain a secret. No one must know that Mablevi's has the blood of the Gods."
Adana's lips pressed into a thin line. "Yes, Your Majesty. I will protect her."
But Obiora shook his head. "No. In the dead of night, we will place the child on the steps of the brothel south of the palace."
The mother bolted upright, her weak body trembling with rage. "“You swore to me,” she gasped, her voice trembling with rage. “You swore that our daughter would be safe—that she would have a place in your kingdom!”
Obiora raised a hand, silencing her. His voice softened, but the steel in his tone remained. "She will live. I will send my strongest guard to ensure her safety. She will grow up away from the palace, but she will live."
Tears streamed down the mother's face as she collapsed back onto the cot, her sobs muffled by the oppressive silence.
Obiora turned back to the child, his gaze lingering on her swirling marks. For a moment, he faltered, his eyes lingering on my tiny, trembling hands. Guilt flickered in his expression, a hesitation that softened the edges of his cruelty. But then his mask returned, harder than before, and he sealed my fate.
"Do as I command."
As the palace celebrated the birth of Princess Bahari, the hidden chamber returned to silence. The oil lamp flickered weakly, its flame threatening to die out. Adana held the baby close, her gaze distant as she whispered a silent prayer.
The silence was broken by the creak of the heavy door. A figure an Aranbiyan guard stepped into the room, his shadow stretching across the cold stone floor. Adana turned sharply, instinctively pulling the baby closer, but the man who entered wasn't a threat. At least, not to me.
He stood tall, his broad shoulders framed by a massive braht that dragged against the floor, its weight seeming to echo the burdens he carried. The golden clasp at his chest gleamed in the dim light, but it was his eyes that caught everyone's attention—one a sharp, glowing yellow, the other darker and clouded from an old wound. His dark hair was tousled, and the faint scars that crossed his face and arms spoke of battles long fought.
Adana's lips pressed into a thin line. "Kiaran..." she said, her tone heavy with skepticism. "He is but a child........"
Kiaran's sharp gaze flicked to her, but he said nothing. Instead, he dropped to one knee before King Obiora, his head bowed low, and placed a hand over his heart.
"My King," he said, his voice low and steady, the Irish lilt softening the edges of his words. He spoke with a lilting accent, one foreign to these sands, a relic of the far northern isles where men were captured and sold like cattle in Aranbiya’s markets
"Command me, and it will be done."
Obiora's expression was unreadable as he studied the young man before him. For a moment, the tension in the room was palpable, the faint crackle of the oil lamp the only sound. Then, finally, Obiora spoke.
"You fought in Mors Gravis," he said, his voice carrying the weight of authority. "You triumphed where others fell. You've proven your strength, Kiaran. But this..." He gestured toward the infant. "This is no arena."
Kiaran lifted his head, his mismatched eyes meeting Obiora's with unwavering resolve. "Aye, it's not," he replied. "But strength isn't just for the battlefield. It's for protecting those who can't protect themselves. I'll guard her with my life—no harm will come to her."
Adana scoffed, her skepticism cutting through the air. "He's just a child himself! How can an 18-year-old boy raise a baby in the brothels? You'd trust him with this?"
Obiora turned sharply to her, his tone cold and final. "I trust him because he's endured more than most men twice his age. He's proven his loyalty, his resilience. And now, he'll prove it again."
Adana hesitated, her lips pressing together as she glanced between the king and Kiaran. Finally, with visible reluctance, she stepped forward and placed the baby into Kiaran's arms.
He cradled me carefully, his massive frame seeming almost gentle as he adjusted his grip. His braht dragged against the floor as he rose to his full height, his presence filling the room like a shield against the world.
"If this is her fate," Kiaran said, his voice soft but resolute, "then she won't face it alone."
Obiora stepped closer, his voice low but commanding. "Take her to the brothel south of the palace. Keep her safe. No one must know who she truly is." He paused, his gaze hardening. "Do not fail me, Kiaran."
Kiaran nodded once, his grip tightening around me as though he'd already made an unspoken vow. "You have my word."
Without another word, he turned and disappeared into the night, his heavy braht trailing behind him like a shadow. The cold air bit at my skin as he carried me away from the palace, from the golden light and celebration. And in that moment, I knew—wherever I was going, he would protect me.
My mother fought for me, even when she had no strength left. Her cries echoed in that cold, stone room, a sound I couldn't understand then but would never forget.
My existence was a secret that could destroy the kingdom—a child born of divinity in a world that sought to erase it. My presence was a reminder of the past my people had tried to bury, and the storm that would one day come to reclaim it.
I wasn't supposed to survive. But I did. And one day, the kingdom that cast me out will remember the name they tried to erase. Mablevi Hodari.
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