The palace grounds had transformed into a living tapestry of color and sound. Rimi had never seen anything like it – not even in the grandest celebrations of Garin gabas. Streams of coral beads cascaded from every pillar, catching the sunlight like captured water. Woven raffia panels in deep indigo and gold created walls of artistry, many of them Rimi's own work, now dancing in the breeze alongside delicate fish nets decorated with precious shells and coins from distant lands.

The coastal people had brought their own magic to Obiako. Their women moved like waves in wrapper skirts dyed in colors Rimi had never seen – deep greens of the ocean depths, the purple of rare sea urchins, and blues that matched the horizon where sky meets water. Their headdresses defied gravity, elaborate sculptures of fabric that reminded Rimi of sea birds in flight.

And there, at the center of it all, stood Prince Uko with Princess Adanna. His skin was indeed fair, almost golden in the sunlight, and his dreadlocks were adorned with tiny shells and gold clips that chimed softly when he moved. The stories about his mother, the mysterious white woman from across the great seas, suddenly seemed less like fantasy as Rimi studied his features – the sharp angle of his nose, the unusual color of his eyes that shifted between green and brown like shallow waters. Yet his movements were pure coastal grace, each gesture fluid as water.

Adanna was resplendent in Rimi's creation – a wrapper that told the story of two kingdoms united. Rimi had woven in symbols of Obiako's harvest alongside patterns of waves and sea creatures, creating a new language of fabric that made the coastal queen mother weep with joy. The princess's neck and wrists bore the weight of uncounted coral beads, and her elaborate headdress was crowned with rare white feathers from water birds that only the coastal people knew how to hunt.

The music was a war between traditions that had somehow found peace – Obiako's ground drums battling playfully with the coastal people's percussion that sounded like rainfall on water. The harmony they created set everyone's feet moving, even those who tried to resist.

Rimi found herself swept into dance after dance, her wrapper skirt flaring as Amadi spun her. She'd briefly caught sight of Nkili among the nobles, the young woman's knuckles white around her palm wine tusk as she watched them. But the rhythm pulled Rimi's attention away again, and she surrendered to the celebration.

From her corner, Mairo observed it all, occasionally coughing into her sleeve to clear the heavy incense smoke that filled the air. The crowd was overwhelming, each face lit with joy, each hand reaching for palatial foods laid out on banana leaves. It was a feast for the senses, from the scent of spiced fish stews to the taste of palm wine.

Yet amidst the celebration, a quiet absence lingered. Back home, beyond the outskirts, I sat alone with my alligator meat and my thoughts

Rimi had told me about the wedding preparations, about the coastal people's strange and wonderful ways, about the prince's mysterious heritage. But today, I chose solitude over spectacle.

The celebration would continue for seven days, the coastal people's tradition merging with Obiako's customs. As the sun began to set, great floating lanterns were released into the sky – another coastal tradition, paper crafts that carried flames up to the ancestors. They dotted the darkening sky like fallen stars, and for a moment, even Nkili forgot her heartache, even Mairo forgot her wariness of crowds, as everyone watched the lights ascend.

Only I, in my solitude, missed this new wonder. But some prices are worth paying, some celebrations worth missing, when you carry certain memories in your heart.

The celebrations below sparkled like fireflies against the darkening sky. From my perch on the stone hill, the sounds of drums and laughter floated up distorted and distant, as if coming from underwater. I lifted the palm wine to my lips again, letting its familiar bitter-sweetness wash away the phantom taste of ash in my mouth.

The alligator meat was good – properly spiced and roasted just the way mother used to make it. Another sip of palm wine. Mother. The floating lanterns from the coastal kingdom drifted higher, their gentle glow morphing in my wine-blurred vision into a different kind of light, a hungrier one. Suddenly I was twelve again, watching flames devour our compound with the kind of fierce greed only fire can possess.

I could see Wago, my jaguar, pacing in his corner of the compound, his spotted coat reflecting the inferno's light. He had been my father's last gift before he was taken. "A prince needs a prince's pet," father had said. But that night, Wago's royal roars turned to desperate yowls as the flames closed in. My little sisters had been sleeping – they probably never woke. Mother had run back in for them. I had tried to follow, but someone had held me back. Someone had saved me by forcing me to watch everything burn.

The smell. Gods, the smell. Even now, seasons upon seasons later, I could still smell burning flesh and hair, still hear the crack of falling beams, still feel the heat on my—

"I thought you might be here."

Mairo's voice cut through the memory like a knife through cobwebs. She stood a few paces away, her silhouette rimmed by the light of the rising moon. There was no judgment in her voice, no pity – just quiet understanding.

"The celebrations too much for you too?" I asked, making room on the flat stone beside me. My voice sounded hoarse, though I couldn't remember if I'd been crying.

"Too crowded," she said, settling beside me. "And Rimi..." She paused, accepting the gourd of palm wine I offered. "Rimi is happy there. She deserves this moment of joy, without me hovering like a worried mother hen."

Below us, another round of cheers erupted from the palace as more lanterns took flight. Their glow was gentler than my memories, I noticed. Softer. Like hope instead of destruction.

"The celebrations must look beautiful from up here," Mairo said, her eyes on the distant lights.

"Like stars that forgot their way home," I replied, offering her more palm wine. Our fingers brushed as she took the gourd, and neither of us acknowledged the lingering touch.

"Is that poetry I hear? The reclusive farmer knows poetry?"

I laughed softly. "I know many things."

"And yet I know so little about you," she said, turning slightly to face me. In the mixed light of moon and distant celebration, her golden eyes held questions she'd never asked before. "All these moons of friendship, and you're still a mystery."

"Says the woman who appeared from nowhere with another woman, stealing corn from my farm."

"Right." She smiled, then grew serious. "But at least you know we fled from Garin gabas. You've never spoken of your past at all."

The palm wine sat warm in my belly, making my tongue looser than usual. Perhaps it was that, or perhaps it was the way her shoulder pressed against mine, solid and real against the ghost-memories that haunted this hill.

"What if I told you," I said slowly, "that I'm not really from Obiako at all?"

She turned fully toward me now, interest sparking in her eyes. "No?"

"No." I took another sip of wine, gathering courage. "I'm from Irum Ala."

I felt her stiffen beside me. Everyone knew of Irum Ala – the great city, heart of the Nri empire, where the king of kings ruled all our lands. Even here in Obiako, children grew up hearing tales of its grandeur.

"The land of kings," she whispered.

"Yes. And I..." The words caught in my throat. I hadn't spoken them aloud in so long. "I am – was – the son of the third prince."

Her sharp intake of breath was barely audible over the distant drums. "Was?"

"My father was the third son of the king of kings," I said, my voice low. "There were five princes, each from a different wife, each strong, each worthy." I paused, glancing at Mairo to see if she was still listening. Her gaze was fixed, attentive. "When the king was poisoned, he declared on his deathbed that all his sons would have an equal chance at the throne."

"That's..." Mairo searched for words. "Unusual."

"It was meant to be fair. A chance for the most worthy to rise." I laughed darkly. "Instead, it bred monsters. The second son – my uncle – he was always the most ambitious. The most cruel. He killed the first son in his sleep, then came for us."

I felt Mairo's hand find mine in the darkness. Her palm was warm, calloused from work but gentle. An anchor to the present as I drifted in the past.

"The night they burned our compound... I lost everything. My father, taken captive. My mother, my siblings, even Wago, my pet jaguar – all gone in the flames." I swallowed, the bitterness of the memory coating my tongue like ash. "I was saved only because my uncle dragged me out, his hands blistering from the fire." Mairo's eyes softened, her hand still in mine. "So you ran," she whispered, as if speaking any louder might break me."

"So you ran," she said softly. Not a question, not a judgment. Just understanding.

"So I ran. Found my way to Nkeabuo, where my uncle taught me the way of the shadows. He died shortly after but I honed that skill and ..."

She squeezed my hands as if telling me to stop. The space between us seemed to shrink, charged with something more than just shared confidences. Her hand was still in mine, her face close enough that I could see the flecks of gold in her eyes caught by the distant celebration lights.

"We all have our ghosts," she whispered.

"Yes," I agreed, and somehow we were even closer now. "But tonight... tonight perhaps we could..."

A burst of particularly loud music from the palace made us both jump slightly, breaking whatever spell had been weaving between us. But our hands remained linked, and something had shifted in the night air around us.

"Perhaps," Mairo said, squeezing my hand gently again, "you could tell me more about Irum Ala? About the boy you were before you became our stern farmer?"

And so I did, as the celebration continued below and the moon climbed higher, finding strange comfort in finally sharing my burden with someone who understood the weight of secrets.

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