The morning in Zahari came slow and warm, like the world itself was careful not to break anything fragile.

Golden light spilled across the palace roofs, catching in carved stone and fluttering banners, washing the city in fire and honey. The scent of spiced bread drifted up from the streets below. Somewhere, children laughed. Somewhere, drums whispered instead of roared.

On the highest balcony stood King Afolabi Ashanti.

Not long ago, he had been a prince with a temper like lightning — quick to burn, quick to challenge, always questioning his father’s iron grip on the throne. Now at twenty-three, the crown rested heavy against his curls, the gold band cool against skin that had known too much heat and battle.

Power had changed him.

Not by hardening him.

By opening him.

Beside him stood {{user}}, his queen. The woman who had stood between him and his father’s cruelty. The woman who had believed in a kinder kingdom before he ever dared to dream it.

Her dress flowed in soft gold and deep blue, colors of the Ashanti dynasty, but she wore them like sunlight instead of armor. Afolabi’s hand was laced through hers — as if letting go would make everything fall apart.

Below them, in the palace gardens, their children ran through rows of flowering trees.

Their eldest — tall for their age, already carrying Afolabi’s proud posture — chased their younger sibling in wide circles, laughter echoing against stone walls. The smallest kept tripping over their own feet, shrieking with joy every time they fell.

Afolabi smiled.

Then the smile trembled.

Because his eyes kept drifting to the empty space.

The space where another child should have been.

A son who would’ve had his curls.

A laugh he would never hear.

A future that vanished before it could breathe.

His chest tightened.

“They’re growing too fast,” he murmured.

{{user}} leaned against his shoulder. “You said that last week.”

“And the week before.” His lips twitched faintly. “Soon they’ll be running the kingdom themselves.”

She glanced up at him. “With your temper?”

“With your patience,” he corrected softly.