Peace, however, was not a passive endeavor.
Ayọ̀kúnlé stood at the edge of a high tower in the newly rebuilt citadel of Ọ̀rùn-ìlé, once reduced to ash and silence by war. Now, its walls gleamed with the warmth of fresh stone and the echo of laughter. Builders sang while they worked. Children played beneath the banners of the Five Relics. Merchants and messengers flowed in and out of the gates like blood through newly opened veins.
He watched the horizon where the mountains met the clouds, where the lands of Odanjo faded into myth and rumor. Somewhere beyond those peaks, whispers remained of those who had not accepted his rise, of forces who thrived in chaos, of powers who feared what unity meant.
There were still letters unopened in his war tent. Still summons unanswered. Still emissaries waiting with their veiled threats masked as diplomacy.
Yet Ayọ̀kúnlé had changed. The boy who once dreamed of peace now understood the burden of keeping it.
Behind him, the door creaked open.
Móyèṣọlá entered without a word, her robes dusted with ash and soil from the morning's rites. She had taken the role of High Seer, but she walked like a sister not with reverence, but with trust.
"They're gathering in the hall," she said softly.
Ayọ̀kúnlé nodded. "Let them speak first. I want to hear what they imagine the future to be before I tell them what it must become."
She tilted her head. "You're listening now?"
"I've always listened," he said. "But before, I only heard my fears. Now, I hear the world."
He turned from the tower view and followed her into the grand council chamber.
Inside, the circular room buzzed with quiet power. Nobles and generals, scholars and priestesses, warriors from distant tribes and envoys from once-hostile nations all gathered under the dome where a mural of the Five Relics now stretched across the ceiling.
Adérónké stood near the dais, her hand resting casually on the hilt of her twin blades. Tùndé leaned back in his chair, already munching on roasted groundnuts as though centuries of war hadn't just ended.
The room quieted as Ayọ̀kúnlé entered.
He walked slowly, not for effect, but for meaning. Every step was a reminder: of battles fought, of blood shed, of a prince who had walked through shadow and emerged still human.
He took his place at the center, where five narrow beams of light pierced the roof and met him like a crown of fire.
"You called me cursed," he began, his voice steady. "You called me doomed. You called me danger."
He looked around, meeting each gaze in turn.
"You were right."
A hush fell like a storm about to break.
"I was all those things," he continued. "But not by choice. By chains. By fear. By history. And now, all of that is gone. The curse is broken."
Some heads bowed. Others nodded.
"But we are not free just because the darkness has retreated. Peace is not the absence of war. It is the constant battle against the things that try to divide us."
He lifted his gaze to the mural above.
"Today, we declare not the end of conflict but the beginning of harmony."
From behind him, Móyèṣọlá stepped forward and raised a bowl of sacred earth.
"This soil," she said, "was taken from every kingdom that stood with Odanjo, and from those that fell."
She poured it slowly onto the center stone, where it shimmered with the light of the relics embedded beneath the floor.
"Let it remind us," she said, "that peace is built, not inherited."
The air thickened with reverence.
Adérónké stepped up next, drawing her blade and plunging it into the stone beside the earth. "And let it be protected," she added, "by those who remember what it cost."
Tùndé stood last. He held up a map unmarked, blank, save for the outline of Odanjo. "Let us redraw the world not in borders," he said, "but in bonds."
Ayọ̀kúnlé smiled.
This was no longer his burden alone. It never had been. That was the lesson the curse had hidden from him all his life that strength was not solitude, but unity.
He reached into the folds of his robe and drew out the Fifth Relic, now transformed into a crystal of pulsing light. He placed it into the center of the soil, beside Adérónké's blade and Tùndé's map.
And from it, light surged upward, illuminating the faces of all present. For a moment, every leader, every fighter, every dreamer saw the same future.
Not easy.
Not safe.
But possible.
The chamber erupted into applause. Not of triumph, but of commitment.
Later that evening, Ayọ̀kúnlé wandered the gardens below the citadel. Lanterns danced in the trees. The people celebrated not a victory but a beginning. Musicians played ballads of hope. Young lovers whispered vows beneath the relic lights. Elders told tales of the cursed prince who had become something greater.
Ayọ̀kúnlé paused near the statue that had once been covered in vines and moss. It now stood cleaned, its inscription clear:
"For the ones who chose to rise."
He closed his eyes, felt the breeze carry the scent of jasmine and woodsmoke.
His journey had once been written in the stars, dictated by fate.
Now, it was carved by choice.
The night deepened around Ayọ̀kúnlé as he stood in quiet reflection before the statue. Lanterns flickered along the garden path like miniature stars come down to rest. The world was quieter now no more cries of war, no rumbling hooves or clashing steel. Only the heartbeat of a realm trying to remember how to breathe again.
He turned from the statue and made his way slowly along the stone trail that wove between blossoming trees and marble archways. The Cradle of Spirits pulsed softly in the distance its once-ominous glow now gentle, a constant reminder of what had been conquered, and what still lay ahead.
From a nearby courtyard came the faint sound of a flute, its notes drifting on the wind like echoes of another age. He recognized the melody. It was an old song of Odanjo, one his mother used to hum when the storms outside the palace grew too loud. A lullaby for restless kings.
His steps carried him to the edge of a reflecting pool where the moon lay scattered across the water. A figure sat on a low bench beside it.
Adérónké.
She did not look up as he approached, her fingers tracing the hilt of one of her blades. But her voice met him.
"Could you have imagined this, back in the ruins of Ilé-Ayè?" she asked quietly.
Ayọ̀kúnlé sat beside her, watching their reflections ripple. "I didn't even think I'd live to see it."
She smirked faintly. "You almost didn't."
Silence passed between them comfortable, earned.
"The people are scared," she said eventually. "Not of war, not anymore. But of peace. They don't know how to live without an enemy."
Ayọ̀kúnlé nodded slowly. "Peace is a different kind of war. One that requires more patience, more forgiveness... and more courage."
She turned to him, her eyes solemn. "You're the king now. They'll look to you for everything."
"I know," he said, meeting her gaze. "But I'll look back to them. This time, I won't walk alone."
For the first time in many moons, Adérónké smiled fully genuinely. "Good. Because I'm tired of dragging you out of trouble."
They both laughed quietly, their voices soft against the night's hush.
Elsewhere in the citadel, Tùndé had already begun planning the first Grand Convocation an open council where every tribe and province could send a voice. No more secrets, no more backroom bargains. Transparency was the seed of trust, and trust the soil of peace.
In the temple halls, Móyèṣọlá lit the sacred fires again, not for old gods, but for new beginnings. The Priests of the Mirror Flame had pledged their wisdom to serve not rule. Oracles now taught children as well as kings.
The Relics had been returned to their rightful places. Not to be worshipped, but remembered.
Each held a story.
And each story had a cost.
Ayọ̀kúnlé rose from the bench and began walking back toward the heart of the palace. The corridors were alive with quiet activity scribes recording the events of the new age, artisans carving panels that would one day line the history halls, farmers discussing plans to restore the outer regions devastated by famine and siege.
It was a kingdom in motion.
A kingdom reborn.
Outside the war chamber now renamed the Hall of Futures he paused, laying a hand on the great wooden doors. It was here the old kings once plotted their campaigns, where whispers of curses and prophecies had once ruled.
But when he opened the doors, the scene inside was changed.
Children were seated in a circle at the center, listening to an elder tell the tale of the Sky Daughter and the Clay King a fable of balance. The walls were lined with maps of shared irrigation routes, joint trade paths, and schools to be built across former enemy territories.
The room no longer smelled of smoke and fear.
It smelled of ink, earth, and future.
Ayọ̀kúnlé closed the doors softly, his heart full.
As he turned back toward his chambers, the wind shifted. It was subtle like a whisper from the gods. But it carried something... different. A change in the air. A reminder.
Peace was a blessing.
But it would always be fragile.
He knew that not all wounds had healed. That in distant corners of the realm, resentment still simmered. That among the stars, fate still watched, wondering if this king could truly break the cycle.
He would.
Because this time, he had something the cursed prince never had:
A kingdom that believed in him.
And a will that refused to yield.
He stepped into his chamber where the sword of light the relic-born greatsword rested on a stand beside his window. It no longer hummed with battle. Now, it was silent, serene. Waiting.
Not for war.
But for whatever came next.
Ayọ̀kúnlé approached it and touched the hilt with reverence. "We're not finished," he whispered. "Not by far."
From the window, the city of Odanjo sparkled beneath the stars.
And overhead, the night sky stretched vast and uncharted just like the future he was sworn to shape.