The Lost king

I. DAMILOLA'S POV – The Ghost That Followed

The cries of the freed women still echoed behind her.

Some had fallen to their knees in thanks. Some wept. Some simply stood in silence, as if unsure they were truly free. Damilola had said nothing. She only nodded once and walked away, blade still in hand, eyes set on a place she hadn't seen in years — the decaying Ojora outpost beyond the burnt ridge.

She knew where he'd be.

> "He always hid behind rotting walls and screaming girls."

Every step she took toward that place felt heavier. She didn't feel victorious. She didn't feel alive.

She felt… unfinished.

---

II. DUROJAIYE'S POV – A Relic of Rot

The outpost was mostly ruins now. Crumbled walls. Bloodstains blackened by time. And yet, Durojaiye lingered there, like a spirit that refused to die.

He sat in the shadows of a collapsed shrine, oil lamp flickering. His armor was unpolished, his blade chipped, but his tongue still sharp.

He felt her before he saw her.

> Footsteps. Steady. Familiar.

He looked up, and there she was — grown now, no longer the little girl chained to the post watching him ruin her sister.

Damilola.

> "Ah… so they let you keep your name," he said, rising. "Did they let you forget her screams, too?"

She didn't flinch.

> "I remember everything."

> "Good. Then you'll remember how she begged."

Still nothing in her face.

That unnerved him.

> "You think killing me gives you peace?" he mocked. "You came all this way to prove you're strong. But you're still a girl carrying a dead woman's voice."

> "No," she said softly. "I carry her silence."

---

III. FEMI'S POV – The Final Step

Femi had followed her—not as a spy, not as a warrior. As something more.

He didn't want her to face this alone.

From the forest edge, he watched her step into the ruins. He couldn't hear the words exchanged, but he saw the way she stood — frozen, not out of fear, but out of restraint.

And then Durojaiye lunged.

A glint of silver from his sleeve. A hidden blade.

Femi moved.

> One breath.

One step.

One swing.

Steel flashed.

Durojaiye stopped mid-motion, eyes wide. Blood sprayed from his neck.

He collapsed without grace.

Femi stood between him and Damilola, sword lowered, breathing hard.

> "You didn't need to get your hands dirty," he said. "Not for him."

She didn't look at Durojaiye's corpse. She looked down at her own blade — and let it fall from her hand.

Then she turned away and walked.

> No victory speech.

No smile.

Just a quiet, hollow wind as she left the blade behind in the dirt.

The forest was quiet.

After the battle, after the screams, after the steel—there was only wind. It whispered through the trees, brushing against Damilola's face like a memory she couldn't shake.

She stood a little apart from the others. Just ahead, Femi checked the remaining freed captives. The rest of the rebels regrouped in silence.

But Damilola...

She stared at the trees and saw a hut.

Not this forest, but that one. Years ago.

She and her sister had built a game out of nothing. Sticks became staffs, baskets became shields. They chased each other around their mother's cooking fire, laughing, yelling, arguing like only sisters could.

> "You cheat!" "You slow!"

They would roll in the dirt. Smile. Race toward the stream barefoot, only to be scolded later for the mess.

Damilola remembered her own laughter—loud, full, untamed.

She used to be like that. Stubborn, yes. But light. Joyful. Alive.

A breeze passed, and for a moment, she felt her again. Her sister's presence, just behind her. Watching. Smiling. As if urging her to let go.

Her fingers trembled.

Then—Femi was beside her.

He said nothing at first. Just placed a gentle hand on her shoulder.

She didn't think. Didn't plan it.

She turned and hugged him—tight, fierce. Her arms shaking. Her forehead pressed against his shoulder. Her breath hitched. And then—

Tears.

Silent at first. Then heavy. Full of everything she had buried. All the years of silence. The guilt. The rage. The helplessness.

Femi didn't move.

His eyes widened, surprised—but he said nothing. He simply wrapped one arm around her, slow, careful. He let her cry. Let her shudder. Let her fall apart, even if just for a heartbeat.

When the tears slowed, Damilola pulled back suddenly. She wiped her face with the back of her arm and forced a breath out.

> "We need to go," she said flatly.

Femi blinked. "Are you sure—?"

> "We have a war to finish," she said, voice calm now, collected. Too calm.

She turned and started walking.

Femi watched her for a moment—confused, maybe even concerned. But he followed.

Because her step was steady again.

But deep inside, Damilola asked herself:

> "Why did I do that?"

Why did she let herself break in front of him?

Why now?

And would it happen again?

She didn't know the answers.

But her heart, lighter somehow, beat stronger with every step she took toward the final fight.

---

Closing Line – Femi's Thought

> "She didn't leave because it was over. She left because she didn't need to carry it anymore."

Damilola's POV 

"We have a war to finish," she said.

She walked forward. Her steps steady again.

But something inside her still whispered…

"Why did I let him see me break?"

Femi's POV – "The Moment She Let Go"

He had seen bloodshed.

He had stood over fallen brothers, led raids into burning villages, fought until his arms were numb and his soul was heavier than his blade.

But this—

This moment with her—

Was something else.

Femi had been watching her from the edge of the camp, half his attention on the rebels, the rest on Damilola. She was standing still, too still, her eyes fixed on nothing and everything at once. Like she was caught in a world only she could see.

He had seen her fight like a tempest.

He had seen her silence men twice her size with a glance.

But he had never seen her still.

So, he approached, slow. No words.

He simply placed a hand on her shoulder.

And then—

She turned, suddenly, and wrapped her arms around him.

It wasn't graceful. It wasn't planned.

It was desperate. Real. Raw.

Femi froze for a heartbeat—just one.

Then instinct took over.

He held her—arms firm, steady. Let her bury her face in his shoulder. Let her cry. He didn't try to stop it. Didn't speak. He knew words would only break the moment.

And maybe she didn't need comfort.

Maybe she just needed to know someone was there.

That someone saw her.

Femi had always known there were ghosts behind Damilola's fire. But he never knew the weight of them until that moment—until he felt her tremble in his arms.

A single tear fell from his own eye.

Not out of pity.

But respect.

For everything she had endured.

And for trusting him enough to let it show.

Then, just as suddenly, she pulled away.

Her face blank again. Her mask restored.

> "We need to go," she said.

Like nothing had happened.

Femi blinked, caught off guard.

But he nodded and followed her. Of course he

did.

Still, as they walked, he glanced sideways at her once.

And thought:

> "You don't have to carry it alone, Dami… not anymore."

But he wouldn't say that. Not yet.

She wasn't ready.

And so, he walked behind her in silence.

Ready.

Steady.

Always.

?